To Lose A Life
by Nonny A
Summary: When an accident leaves Mark with amnesia, an ex-con with a grudge sees an opportunity for revenge. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes.

RATING: G

SUMMARY: When an accident leaves Mark with amnesia, an ex-con with a grudge sees an opportunity for revenge.

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TO LOSE A LIFE

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Chapter 1

Mark Sloan was walking through one of the nastier areas of Los Angeles, searching for someplace open that might have a public phone. It was late, dark, and foggy, and he was distinctly frustrated with himself and his situation. He had been driving out to visit a friend and had gotten lost trying to follow the directions he had been given. As if it were not enough that he had found himself lost in this semi-deserted section of the city, he had apparently run over something sharp and gotten a flat tire. And to top it all off, he discovered, when he tried to call for assistance, that the battery in his cell phone was dead. So here he was, tramping through a dark, seamy side of town, looking for a phone.

Seeing a series of lights across the way, he started to cross over toward them. As he stepped into the street, crossing through a particularly dense patch of fog, a car came careening around the corner, recklessly speeding toward him. Its approach hidden by the fog, the vehicle was on top of him before he even saw it. Mark tried to leap back, managing to avoid being directly hit, but the car clipped him as it zoomed by, throwing him forcefully backward to land hard on the sidewalk, his head hitting the concrete with a sickening thud. 

******* ********

It was just after daybreak when a young orderly from the Exeter Institute was heading home, having just come off the night shift at that psychiatric facility. As he walked through the still-empty streets, he heard a groan from the side street to his right. He tensed, coming alert; this was not a particularly safe neighborhood, although it was all he could afford on his current salary, and he tended to be wary of potential traps for the careless. However, he did work in a medical facility, and the groan sounded genuine, so he cautiously approached the corner and peered around. He saw a white-haired, elderly man, apparently trying to raise himself from a prone position on the sidewalk. His first thought was that this was just another wino waking up from a drunk, but then he saw the blood on the man's face. He came closer and noticed the grazes on the man's face and hands and his dazed expression.

"Hey, buddy, you okay?" he asked, coming over to help the man up. The man looked back at him blankly, his eyes unfocussed, obviously confused and in pain. Realizing that this man was in need of prompt medical attention, the orderly thought quickly. The Institute was just a couple of blocks away; there was a doctor on duty there – that would be the fastest way to get him help. "Come on, pal," he said, throwing one of the man's arms over his shoulder, "we'll get you some place where they can check you out." And propping him up, he headed back the way he had come.

Arriving back at the Exeter Institute, the orderly brought the injured man into the infirmary, letting him down into one of the chairs as he called out to the doctor, "Hey, Doc Collins – I need some help here!"

"I thought you left for your vacation already, Williams," said the doctor as he came out to see what was going on. He then noticed the figure slumped, semi-conscious, in the chair. "What've you got?" 

"I found this guy lying on the sidewalk a couple of blocks away," replied the orderly. "I figured the quickest thing would be to just bring him here."

Doctor Collins came to stand in front of the injured man, lifting his head to take a better look at him. Getting a good look at the man's face, he went very still for a moment, staring at him. 

  
"Doc?" The orderly noticed the sudden stillness. "What is it? Do you know him?"

"Maybe," the doctor replied slowly. He looked up, suddenly becoming all business. "Let's get him up on the examining table." 

The next few minutes passed in assessing the extent of the injuries. During this process, the man regained consciousness, looking around in confusion.

"You've had an accident," Dr. Collins told him. "You're in a hospital."

The man looked up at the white-coated figure above him. "What happened?" he asked.

"Maybe you can tell us," prompted the doctor. "Do you remember being hit? Or falling?"

The man's brow creased in concentration. "I don't remember," he said.

The doctor looked at him intently. "What do you remember?" he asked.

There was a longer pause, and the expression of concentration turned to one of concern. "I don't know… I can't seem to remember anything…"

"Do you know your name?" pursued the doctor.

Again, the look of concentration, as the patient searched for even this basic scrap of information. His voice was distinctly shaky as he admitted, "No… no, I don't." He looked up at the doctor in alarm and dismay. 

Dr. Collins gazed down at him thoughtfully. "Well, just relax," he said. "You have a nasty concussion – that would account for the loss of memory. You just rest for a minute, and I'll be right back." He motioned for the orderly to follow him, as he stepped outside the examining area.

"So, how bad is he, Doc?" asked the orderly.

"Actually, apart from the concussion, the injuries aren't that severe. He should be alright in a few days." He looked at the orderly thoughtfully. "You were on your way off to a couple of weeks of vacation, weren't you, Williams?"

The orderly nodded. "Yeah, I've got 2 weeks of fun and sun coming to me," he said with a grin. "But if you need me to help with this guy before I go…"

"No, that's okay," the doctor interrupted. "I'll take care of everything here. You go on and get yourself packed for a well-earned vacation!"

"Okay, thanks, Doc. See you in a couple of weeks!" 

The doctor watched as Williams left, his mind reviewing possibilities as he considered the circumstances that had just presented themselves. He had recognized the injured man as soon as he had gotten a good look at him. He wasn't likely to forget Dr. Mark Sloan in a hurry, he thought. Not after the good doctor had ruined his career and sent him to jail. Now, instead of being a respected physician in a prestigious hospital, he was reduced to working in this third-rate mental institution that catered to the indigent; and he had only succeeded in landing this job by changing his name and faking his references. He'd gotten away with that because the management was lax and the staff were overworked and stretched too thin to check out his background. And it was all Mark Sloan's fault. Now it seemed that chance had presented him with an opportunity to pay Sloan back for ruining his life. Williams would be gone for several weeks, and no one else knew about how Sloan had arrived. He could cook up some reason for keeping Sloan here – claim to have recognized him and pretend to contact the family, who would, of course, want him admitted. Nobody here would bother to take the time to check that out; and since Sloan apparently had total amnesia, he would be in no position to contradict anything he was told. The more Collins thought about it, the more excited he got, as his mind mulled over all the possibilities for revenge. _Welcome to hell, Dr. Sloan_, he thought, as he turned to re-enter the examining room.


	2. Chapter 2

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Chapter 2

Lt. Steve Sloan sat at his desk at the police station, going through the pile of paperwork that always accompanied the end of a case. His phone rang, and he answered it quickly, grasping at any excuse to avoid the boring task.

"Lt. Sloan… Oh, hi, Jesse, what's up?" Steve leaned back in his chair as he recognized the voice of his friend.

"Hey, Steve, did Mark say anything about not coming in today?" asked Dr. Jesse Travis, who was also a colleague of Mark's at Community General Hospital.

"Actually, I didn't see him this morning, Jess," responded Steve. "I was on a stakeout last night – I only stopped home this morning for a quick shower and change. Dad was already gone when I got there; I figured he'd left for the hospital."

"Well, he's not here," Jesse said. "He missed rounds and his weekly lecture to the med students."

Steve's brow creased. "I assume you tried calling him?"

"I've tried his cell phone, the house, and his pager," responded Jesse. "He doesn't answer any of them."

Steve sat up, abandoning his relaxed posture, as he assimilated this information. It was totally unlike his father to fail to show up for work without calling in. Even if an emergency had arisen first thing this morning, he would have left a message; if he didn't have time to call the hospital, he would at least have left word at home for his son. 

"When was the last time you talked to him?" he asked his friend.

"When he left the hospital last night," Jesse replied. 

Steve felt the first cold tendrils of anxiety start to grip him as he realized that, since he had been out himself, he didn't even know for certain that his father had been home at all last night. He forced himself to think.

"Wasn't he going to visit his friend Tom Russell last night?"

"That's right," confirmed Jesse. "You think something might have come up and he decided to stay there?"

"Maybe," said Steve without conviction. "Although I'd still have expected Dad to call if he wasn't going to be able to make it in to work. But I'll call Tom and see what I can find out."

"Call me back and let me know he says," said Jesse.

Steve hung up and looked up the phone number for his father's friend. By the time he got off the phone with Tom, those tendrils of anxiety were tying knots around his stomach. He called Jesse to report that Mark had never arrived at Tom's house the previous night. Tom had tried to call Mark when he failed to show up, but had gotten no answer. He had assumed that something had come up at the hospital, and that Mark had simply been too involved to be able to call; he'd figured Mark would call him some time today to explain. So now Steve was left with the alarming realization that nobody had seen his father since he'd left the hospital the previous evening. He cursed the miserable timing that had him out on a stakeout all night. If he'd been home, at least he would have noticed his father's absence sooner. He decided to go back to the beach house to see if he could find any sign that Mark had returned there at some point. Before leaving the station, however, he put out a missing person alert on his father and his car.

Back at the house, Steve was still searching for anything he might have missed when he heard the doorbell ring. Going to answer it, he found Jesse and Amanda standing outside.

"Did you find anything?" Jesse asked without preamble. 

Steve didn't even express surprise at their presence; actually, he felt none. These two friends were too close not to be as concerned as he was over Mark's unexplained absence. He let them in, shaking his head in response to Jesse's question.

"Nothing," he replied. "It doesn't look like he came back here at all. His hospital ID, cell phone, and medical kit are all gone, and as near as I can tell, nothing's been moved since yesterday morning."

"There were no messages, nothing on the answering machine?" asked Amanda, knowing that Steve had undoubtedly already checked those possibilities, but unable to refrain from asking anyway. As she had expected, he shook his head again.

"Nothing," he repeated. "No notes anywhere, up here or in my apartment. And the only message on the answering machine is the one from Tom Russell wondering where Dad is and asking him to call when he gets a chance." 

They stared at each other in silence, searching for something to say. There was no point in pretending that there might be a simple, harmless explanation for Mark's disappearance. There had been too many threats, kidnappings, and other scares in the past; Mark would never have gone off for so long without contacting one of them – unless he was physically unable to do so. 

As they were trying to decide what to do next, Steve's cell phone rang. He answered it briskly, hoping against hope that it might be his father. His face hardened as he listened. He snapped the phone shut and met his friends' anxious gazes. "They found Dad's car," he told them, heading for the door without further ado. Jesse and Amanda were right behind him.

Steve pulled his car up behind the black-and-white patrol car, and quickly approached the officer waiting for him. He looked over at the stripped-down remains of his father's car. 

"We found it like this early this morning," the officer told him. "They stripped the plates, along with everything else, but when we got the description of the car you're looking for, we matched the VIN numbers."

Steve stared at the skeletal car before him; everything that could be removed had been – even the wheels were gone, the car left stranded on cinder blocks. Coming up behind him, Amanda found her gaze riveted to the violated vehicle, an unreasoning sense of dread gripping her. She looked at Jesse and saw that he, too, seemed affected by the sight of the car. Somehow, the image of the car in that damaged condition seemed to give physical form to their fears about the status of its owner. 

Steve was the first to pull himself out of this trance-like silence. "Did you find anybody who saw the driver?" he asked.

The officer shook his head. "My partner's out asking around now," he said. "It looks like the car's probably been here all night. So far, we haven't found anyone who admits to seeing anything."

"Interview every person in this neighborhood if you have to," Steve said grimly. "You should have gotten a picture by now – take it door to door and show it to everyone of any age and see what they know. Get the word out that I don't give a damn who did what to the car, but I want any information anybody has on the driver. And I want to know everything that happened in this area between dinner time last night and the time this was found."

The officer nodded, and turned to get started. The odds of finding anybody who had actually seen anything were only slightly better than the odds of getting anyone to admit it, he thought. But you'd have to be deaf, blind, and stupid to point that out to the Lieutenant in his present mood.

As the officer left, Steve looked at Jesse and Amanda to see the worry writ plainly in their faces.

"What would Mark be doing in this neighborhood at night?" Amanda asked.

"I don't know," was the only reply Steve had. 

"Maybe he wasn't here," suggested Jesse. "Maybe somebody just planted the car here to focus our attention in the wrong spot."

Steve just looked at him. That was part of the problem, he thought. They still didn't know anything – not even whether they were dealing with a deliberate attack on his father or just a terrible mishap. He looked back at the wreck of Mark's car. _ Oh God, Dad,_ he thought, _where are you?_


	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter 3

At the Exeter Institute, Dr. Jeffrey Collins was viewing the results of his handiwork with satisfaction. Their newest psychiatric patient was working out just the way he'd planned. He had faked the paperwork admitting a Martin Donner to the Institute, and no one had questioned it. He had destroyed Mark's wallet and identification and removed any potentially identifying effects, such as his watch and wedding ring. He had then concocted for Mark's benefit a sorry saga about how he had been injured in a fight after escaping from the temporary facility where he had been staying. Apparently the poor man had a history of mental instability and violence, and had totally alienated the few family members he had, so that, after this last outbreak, they had decided that the best thing was to have him permanently committed to the Exeter Institute. This story he took great pleasure in imparting to Mark, with a totally spurious air of sympathy, while making sure that the message came through clearly that he was totally alone in the world, with no one who cared about him at all. He then made sure that the 'medication' he gave Mark to control his 'aggression' would act to keep him sufficiently confused to prevent him from being able to consider his circumstances too clearly. But he didn't want him too out of it – he wanted to make sure he was aware enough to appreciate the miseries of his situation. To further this end, he began injecting nerve blockers into the base of Mark's spine to deaden his sensation in his legs, allowing Collins to keep him confined to a wheelchair, while claiming that the paralysis was the result of the injuries sustained in the fight. As a final touch, he had Mark assigned to the nurses and orderlies that he knew were the worst the Institute employed.

So, as Mark gradually recovered physically from the effects of the concussion, he found himself remaining vague and confused about his life. He didn't feel like he was an aggressive person, but Dr. Collins assured him that that was because they were carefully controlling his medication. Occasionally, he did seem to have episodes of unusual agitation, and he had no way of knowing that that was because his 'medication' was being adjusted to produce precisely that effect in order to lend credence to Collin's claim that 'Donner' was basically an unstable, violent personality. What Mark was learning quickly was just how helpless he was. He found that questions and objections, when his mind was clear enough to voice them, were not only discouraged, but were likely to produce negative repercussions. One such episode occurred when he tried to question the need for the injections in his back. Upon being told that the shots were for 'pain', he protested that he wasn't experiencing pain in his back or legs. When he tried to resist the shots, he found himself strapped face-down to the examining table, the restraints cutting deeply into his skin, preventing him from moving at all. He was left that way for quite some time after the injection, just to get the point across. 

As the days went by, Mark found himself increasingly feeling that, in addition to being miserable, things weren't right here. Despite the fact that he couldn't remember anything about himself or his life, he seemed to know that the way things were run at the Exeter Institute was inappropriate for a medical institution. Patients were often drugged into submission by nurses and orderlies who seemed to have little time or interest in managing them any other way. Many of the staff were simply overworked and burned out, but some displayed a distinctly sadistic side when left alone with their charges. These had ways of retaliating against patients they felt were particularly troublesome or who complained about their treatment or conditions. Meals would be unfortunately 'forgotten' or inadequate; patients who required assistance would be ignored for hours; particularly difficult patients might find themselves classified as 'uncontrollable' and be restrained to their beds. 

One night-time orderly in particular, a man named Stickley, was one of the worst, having a tendency to amuse himself at the expense of his patients. One evening, Mark found Stickley playing a 'game' that involved setting up some of the more helpless patients in their wheelchairs at the top of one of the steeper ramps in the building and giving them a hard shove, sending the chair flying down the ramp, frequently overturning at the bottom or crashing into one of the walls. Since the patients were strapped into the chairs, and Stickley made sure their arms were restrained as well, they were helpless to stop themselves or break their falls. Stickley would watch and laugh at their terrified expressions and cries, as he experimented with varying speeds and directions to see which kind of push resulted in which outcome. 

The next day, Mark reported what he had seen to Dr. Collins. Collins was aware of the fact that several of the Institute's employees occasionally engaged in 'inappropriate' behavior with the patients. Since he didn't particularly care about the patient's well-being himself, viewing them all as miserable rejects who were undeserving of his time and abilities, he rarely bothered investigating too closely, unless there were injuries severe enough to require medical treatment. The Institute was too poorly funded and ill-managed to keep the good workers, so they tended to retain mostly the ones who were either ill-qualified or who were not accepted at the better-run institutions. Mark, of course, was unaware of this, just as he was unaware of the fact that Collins had deliberately placed him on Stickley's ward, knowing that Stickley was one of the worst of the bunch. Collins listened solemnly to Mark's tale, promised to see that it was properly dealt with, and made a point of letting Stickley know, when he came in for his shift, who had filed the complaint.

That night, Stickley paid Mark a visit to 'invite' him to join the 'fun'. When Mark tried to lift himself out of the wheelchair to escape, Stickley jabbed the cane he was holding viciously into Mark's solar plexus, causing him to slump, breathless and in pain, back into the chair. Before he could recover, Stickley had fastened the restraints pinning Mark's arms and body to the chair. He then wheeled Mark to the top of one of the steeper ramps in the building and shoved him hard. Mark could only sit helplessly as the chair flew crazily down the ramp, powerless to prevent the inevitable collision. The wheelchair crashed into the side wall at the bottom of the ramp and overturned, it's occupant unable to save himself as the side of his head smacked the floor. Dizzy and hurt, Mark lay there, listening to the sound of laughter above him.


	4. Chapter 4

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Chapter 4

Steve Sloan leaned on the roof of his car, sucking in a few deep breaths. That had been a bad one. This was the third time since his father had disappeared that he had gone down to the city morgue to view the body of an unidentified man in his late sixties or early seventies. Each time, he had had to brace himself as the morgue attendant opened the drawer, trying to prepare for the possible shock of seeing his father's body lying there. The first two times, it had been obvious at a glance that the corpse was not that of his father. But this time – this time there had been that shock of wispy white hair, so like Mark's, above a face so badly distorted as to be almost unrecognizable. It had taken a long hard look to be sure that the body was not his father's; and it had left Steve shaken, with a lingering horror that his father might even now be lying somewhere undiscovered, in just that condition. He took another deep breath to compose himself before getting back into his car. 

As he drove, Steve reflected on the events of the past week. They had turned up almost nothing in their search for Mark. It was as if he had simply vanished from the streets. Steve had been spending most of his waking hours trying to turn up any lead he could. The very lack of any trace made it seem unlikely that Mark's disappearance was due to a simple accident or medical problem. They had contacted every area hospital and medical center multiple times, checking for any sixties-ish 'John Doe's' who might have been brought in. There were, unfortunately, no dearth of elderly homeless men who had required medical treatment, but none of them had been Mark. The newspapers, too, had played up the disappearance of the popular, crime-solving doctor, and Steve had been very willing to use them to spread the word, hoping that someone would recognize his well-known father and report having seen him. But again, while there were always calls from people who claimed to have seen any famous figure, none of them had panned out into genuine leads. Steve reflected bitterly that there were probably more people who had claimed to see Elvis in the past week than there were who might have seen his father.

Caught up in his thoughts, Steve hadn't even noticed where he was driving. He suddenly realized that he was in front of the beach house. He sat there for a few moments, staring at the place that had been his home for so much of his life. Ever since he'd come back to share the house with his father, it had been the perfect refuge for him whenever the stresses of life and his job got to be too much. He headed now for his favorite place when he needed to be alone and think – the log on the beach that was sheltered from view by a small dune, providing a private nook to watch the ocean and get his thoughts and emotions in order. 

As he sat there, staring at the crashing waves, he thought of the many times he'd come to this spot. A reserved person who was never given to pouring out his heart and troubles, he usually came here to be alone. But he realized that part of what made this spot so special was the knowledge that, although he was alone by choice, behind him – both figuratively and literally – was his father. He remembered the many times Mark had come to sit or stand beside him here, willing to quietly withdraw if Steve wasn't ready for company, or to provide counsel, a listening ear, or even just a silent presence full of unspoken but very real love and support. 

Steve knew that his continued residence in the same house as his father was a source of wonder, puzzlement, and occasional derision for a lot of people. When he had first moved back in to the 'downstairs unit' Mark had had fixed up for that purpose, he had, himself, assumed that it was a temporary situation. But, over time, the advantages of the arrangement had well outweighed whatever inconveniences and minor difficulties arose. His father was almost fanatically respectful of Steve's privacy in his own 'apartment', while considering the main portion of the house completely shared territory. The truth was that the arrangement worked out incredibly well for both of them. He knew that his father enjoyed having him there, and he had come to realize that he liked it just as much. Not only did this setup provide him with the type of home and surroundings that were totally beyond what he could ever afford on a cop's salary, but he too enjoyed the additional time it allowed him to spend with his dad. 

Just how much he valued that time had become very clear to him when he had, not so long ago, decided to finally go ahead and buy a house of his own. He had hesitated to broach the subject to Mark, knowing that his father would be disappointed, but Mark had been, as always, supportive of his son's decision, helping any way he could as Steve had found, purchased, and started to move into a house. Then Mark had been nearly killed in that house when a murderer out for revenge had programmed the home computer system to trap and suffocate Steve inside an airtight room; only it was Mark who had been trapped, while Steve raced against the clock to find a way to get him out before it was too late. Steve had come within minutes of losing his father that time, and he had realized how much it meant to him to spend whatever time they could together. Some day, he knew, his circumstances could change – if he was lucky enough to find someone he wanted to marry, for instance – and his living arrangements might have to be rethought. But in the meantime, he was in no hurry to alter a situation that allowed him to snatch brief moments with his father even when his life got so busy that moments were all he had.

But now his father was missing, and that comforting sense of his presence was gone as well. Instead, Steve was plagued with a feeling that he had failed his father – that this time, he wasn't going to be lucky enough to pull off the last-minute rescue and bring Mark back alive. It had been a week since Mark had disappeared, and Steve knew that almost everyone else had pretty much given up hope that he could still be alive. Except for Jesse, he thought, with a slight lightening of his somber mood. Jesse refused to believe Mark could be dead – not for any logical reason, but just because he had a virtually unshakeable belief in Mark's ability to come through anything. Steve found that belief alternately exasperating and comforting, depending upon his own mood at the time. He knew, better than anyone, the extent of his father's resourcefulness and luck; he had pinned his own faith on it many times before. But he was also a cop with almost 20 years of experience, and he knew that every day that passed now significantly decreased the odds of finding his father – especially considering the type of enemies Mark had made through his years of solving crimes. Steve refused to give up the search – one way or another, he had to find out what had happened to his father – but it was becoming ever harder to hang onto the hope that Mark was still alive. 


	5. Chapter 5

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Chapter 5

Life was settling in to a dreary routine for Mark at the Exeter Institute. Stickley had decided to make him his favorite 'player' in the nightly wheelchair 'games', leaving Mark bruised in body and spirit. He had learned that any attempt to complain or bring such activities to the attention of management simply resulted in worse treatment and reprisals. And since he had no family and no visitors, there was no one to whom he could turn for any kind of assistance or relief. The daytime hours were less physically painful than the nights, but no less dreary. In addition to multiple little indignities that were frequently visited on the patients, there was little attempt to brighten their lives, and few of the staff had the time or inclination to be sociable. There was one nurse, Kathy Genero, who seemed to genuinely care about the patients; Mark was struck by the difference in her attitude from that of most of the other personnel. You could tell she cared, he thought; it was in the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes, even the gentleness of her touch. It occurred to him that, sometime in his life, he must have met with that kind of caring to be able to recognize it so surely. He looked forward to the few interactions he had with her, but like everyone else on the staff, she was stretched too thin to have much time to spend with any one patient. Mark realized dismally that it seemed he was destined to spend the remainder of his life in a miserable existence of loneliness, boredom, personal indignities, and abuse. 

One day, about a week after his arrival, however, there was a break in the normal routine of the Institute. It seemed that a reporter had arrived on the premises, looking to do a story on conditions at various psychiatric institutions in the city. The staff were all put on notice to make things look as good as possible, to be careful of what they said, and to try to avoid leaving the reporter alone with any of the patients. The result of all this, Mark noted, was a distinct improvement of the patients' lot that morning. He was not, however, given much of a chance to enjoy it.

Dr. Collins was distinctly uneasy about the presence of a reporter at the clinic. He was well aware that Mark Sloan was a familiar figure to the press, and he knew he'd have to find a way to keep him out of sight to avoid any possibility of him being recognized. To that end, he had Mark brought to the infirmary for a 'checkup', during which he administered a heavy sedative to make sure that Mark couldn't do anything to attract attention to himself. As luck would have it, however, as the orderly was wheeling Mark back to his room, he passed right by the reporter.

Janice Randolph was a good reporter, with a good reporter's memory for names and faces. As the orderly wheeled Mark past her, she got a passing glance at his face, and was struck by a sense of familiarity. On a hunch, she turned to the nurse next to her. 

"Who was that patient who just went by?" she asked.

The nurse peered after Mark. "Oh, that's Martin – Martin Donner," she replied.

Janice considered the name, but it didn't ring any bells. "How long has he been here?" 

"About a week," the nurse replied. 

"I'd like to talk to him," Janice said.

At that point, Dr. Collins, who had come out in time to overhear the conversation, intervened. "I'm sorry," he said firmly. "Mr. Donner is not well today; he's just been given his medication and needs to rest. He's not to be disturbed."

Janice accepted this restriction with apparent acquiescence, but her reporter's instinct was definitely aroused. Something about this doctor's attitude made her all the more determined to see Martin Donner. However, she was obviously going to have to do it another time, when nobody would be watching.

Collins watched as Janice Randolph moved on to another section of the building. He knew she wasn't likely to leave this alone; prohibiting a reporter from talking to someone was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, he thought. He'd better do something about this nosy reporter before she managed to figure out just who Martin Donner really was. He decided to have Mark moved back into the infirmary for 'observation' until she left; that way he could make sure that she had no chance to sneak in and see him. That would buy him a little time to come up with the best way of getting rid of her. 


	6. Chapter 6

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Chapter 6

Steve was back at the police station going through the day's crime reports. He had taken to reviewing all the reports, especially those that had any relevance to the area around where Mark's car had been found. He might not have paid particular attention to the item about a reporter killed in a car crash, if the account hadn't mentioned that she was on her way back to her office after visiting the Exeter Institute. By now, Steve knew every business, building, and address within a one-mile radius of where they had found his father's car, and he knew that the Exeter Institute was barely half a mile from that spot. He decided to pay a visit to the Institute himself.

Steve arrived at the Exeter Institute to find a couple of uniformed officers already there, taking routine statements from people who had spoken to Janice Randolph during her visit the previous day. He got the name of the staff member who had been showing the reporter around the clinic, and went to talk to her himself. He asked her about what Janice had seen, the questions she asked, the things she was interested in; there didn't seem to be anything particularly significant that the employee could remember. 

"Was there any particular patient or staff member that she seemed interested in?" asked Steve.

The attendant considered. "Well, she did ask to speak to one of the patients, but he wasn't feeling well, so she wasn't able to."

"Which patient was that?" Steve queried, wondering just how futile this line of questioning would turn out to be. 

"Martin Donner," was the reply.

"Was there anything special about Mr. Donner that she wanted to know?"

"Not really," said the attendant. "She just asked how long he had been here and what was wrong with him – things like that."

"And how long has he been here?" Steve asked.

"He's one of our newer patients," the attendant responded. "He's only been here about a week."

Steve's interest perked up at this information. Anything that happened a week ago in this area required looking into. 

"Tell me about this Martin Donner," he said. "Who brought him in? And when exactly did he arrive?"

The attendant considered. "I think it was last Thursday night," she said. "I'm not really sure who brought him in; I know he was here already when I got in Friday morning."

Steve felt his heart rate quicken. It was Thursday night that his father had disappeared. Obviously this could just be a coincidence, but at this point, he wasn't going to take anything for granted.

"I'd like to see Mr. Donner myself," he stated. "Where is he now?"

"I'm not sure," was the answer. The attendant called over to a nearby nurse. "Kathy, do you know where Martin Donner is now?"

"I think Dr. Collins brought him into the infirmary," replied the nurse.

"I guess he's still not feeling well," the attendant said to Steve. "Perhaps you can see him another time."

"I think I'll just talk to Dr. Collins about that," said Steve. "Where's the infirmary?" 

As Steve turned to head in the direction the attendant pointed, a man in a white lab coat came out of the room she had indicated. "There's Dr. Collins now," the attendant said.

Hearing his name, Collins looked over towards the attendant. He had sedated Mark and brought him into the infirmary as soon as the police had arrived on the premises, and was feeling fairly confident that he could keep him out of sight by claiming serious illness if necessary. On recognizing Steve, however, he knew the game was over. Steve would undoubtedly recognize him, and he would certainly insist on seeing 'Martin Donner'. Making a split-second decision, Collins turned and ran for the exit.

Seeing the doctor suddenly break into a run, Steve immediately took off after him. He caught up to him just before Collins made it to the door, bringing him down in a flying tackle. He got to his feet, pulling Collins with him, as the other officers came running to help. Yanking Collins around, Steve stared at him. "Dennis Sanders!" he exclaimed in surprise, as he recognized him. His face darkened as he realized who this doctor was and realized as well that he had a very strong motive for hating Mark.

"Where is he, Sanders?" Steve demanded.

"I've got nothing to say to you, Sloan," Sanders/Collins replied defiantly.

Steve glanced over to the closed door from which the doctor had appeared, noticing that it was marked 'Infirmary'. "If you've done anything to my father…" Steve threatened. He didn't waste time completing the sentence. Thrusting Sanders at one of the other officers, he turned and ran into the Infirmary, the nurse and the attendant following after him.

Searching quickly through the examining areas, Steve saw a white-haired figure slumped limply in a wheelchair, head drooped forward onto his chest. Heart pounding, he dropped to a crouch in front of the chair, looking up into the man's face. 

"Dad." His throat so tight he could barely speak, Steve gazed up at his father, a sea of conflicting emotions swirling through him. The intense relief of finding his father alive warred with an almost equal degree of shock at the sight of the ill-kempt figure before him. Mark looked like a neglected old man – clad in ill-fitting, cheap institution clothes, his hair limp, his cheeks hollow, purple shadows under the glazed eyes that lifted to meet Steve's. _Oh my God,_ Steve thought, _what have they done to you?_ As he stared into his father's face, Mark looked back at him in confusion.

"Do I know you?" he asked hesitantly.

Already reeling from the shock of Mark's appearance, the question hit Steve with the force of a kick to the stomach as he realized that this was not a failed attempt at lightness but a genuine query, heartbreaking in its uncertainty.

"Dad, it's me – Steve." He stared at his father, desperately searching for a spark of recognition in those vaguely focussed eyes. But there was none.

"Steve." Mark repeated the name blankly; it obviously held no meaning for him.

The anguished shock that gripped Steve was swept away in the wave of white-hot fury that flooded him as he saw Sanders standing handcuffed at the entrance to the Infirmary, flanked by the two uniformed officers. It took the combined efforts of both officers to intercept his lunge at the doctor. "What did you do to him?" Steve demanded, rage throbbing in his voice. "What did you give him?"

"I told you, Sloan," sneered Collins; "I'm not saying anything until I talk with my lawyer." 

With an effort that almost choked him, Steve managed to control his overwhelming urge to throttle the doctor. "Get him out of here," he ordered the officers, shaking off their grip. His face still full of anger, he turned abruptly back to his father – to be brought up short as he saw Mark flinch as if anticipating a blow. That faint flicker of fear in his father's eyes was a knife in his heart; the anger drained from his face, leaving him pale, as he sank again into a crouch beside the wheelchair. He had to swallow hard before he could speak.

"It's okay, Dad," his said, his voice very gentle, if a trifle shaky. "Nobody's going to hurt you… I promise."

Mark gazed at the face before him, trying to fight the drug-induced haze that was clouding his mind. He didn't know who this man was, but he recognized the look of caring, the gentle tone of the voice. He relaxed a bit, realizing that whoever this 'Steve' was, he apparently meant him no harm. He decided to risk a question.

"Why do you call me 'Dad'?" he asked.

Steve felt his heart twist painfully. Of all the possible nightmare scenarios he had envisioned for when he found his father, this one had never occurred to him. Struggling to control his whirling emotions, he tried to keep his voice calm.

"Do you know who you are?" he asked his father.

"Martin Donner," Mark responded; but there was a note of uncertainty in the reply.

"Did Sanders tell you that?" asked Steve.

"Sanders?" 

Seeing the look of confusion on Mark's face, Steve remembered that Sanders had been going by a different name here. Quickly casting his mind back, he came up with the name the attendant had given him.

"Collins," he corrected himself. "Did Dr. Collins tell you that was your name?" Mark nodded, and Steve drew a deep breath. "He lied, Dad," he said, as gently as he could. "Your name is Mark Sloan, and you're my father. I've been looking for you for the past week."

Mark gazed back at him in confusion. "I don't understand," he said.

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, wondering how to explain the situation to his father in his current state. In addition to everything else, Mark was obviously drugged and in need of medical treatment. Right now, Steve just wanted to get him out of here and over to Community General where he would be properly cared for.

"It's a confusing situation, Dad," he said quietly. "And I promise we'll sort it all out together. But the important thing now is to get you to the hospital and see that you're taken care of." The lost and uncertain look on his father's face almost broke his heart. He stood up, turning to the attendant who was watching him somewhat uncertainly herself. "Get an ambulance out here," he told her; "I want him taken to Community General Hospital."

The attendant hesitated. "But, Lieutenant, we're not supposed to transfer a patient without doctor's orders."

Steve felt a sharp flare of anger shoot through him, but he tried to control it, not wanting to alarm his father again. "Your 'Dr. Collins' is a de-licensed ex-con," he said, keeping his voice level but firm. "He's now facing charges for abduction, possible assault, and fraud – just to start with. This man does not belong here and I'm getting him out now. You can either call for that ambulance and start cooperating, or I'll have you arrested for obstruction."

The nurse, who had been standing in the doorway, nodded to the attendant. "Go on, Sally," she said. "Call for the ambulance, and then call Dr. Mosley and see if he can come in and cover here until we get everything straightened out." As Sally went off, the nurse turned back to Steve.

"I'm Kathy Genero," she said. "I don't really understand what's going on here, but I'm sure you can understand that we need to be sure we're doing what's in the best interest of our patients."

"Trust me, it's in my father's best interest to get him out of here as soon as possible," Steve responded dryly.

Kathy looked at him curiously. "Is Martin really your father?" she asked.

"His name's Mark Sloan," Steve replied. "And yes, he's my father." He looked over at Mark and saw that he was watching them, still with that expression of uncertainty. He placed a reassuring hand on Mark's shoulder. "It's going to be all right, Dad," he said. He looked back at the nurse, without breaking the physical contact with his father. "Look, I'd appreciate anything you can tell me about what's happened to him here. Do you know how he lost his memory or what drugs he's been given?"

"He came in some time last Thursday night. He'd been injured – in a fight, I think they said; he had a severe concussion, some lacerations, and was apparently suffering from total amnesia when he arrived."

"Why didn't you report him when we came around asking about anyone who might have sought medical treatment that night?" Steve asked, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice.

"They only asked for any unidentified admissions," Kathy replied. "By the time the police came around, Dr. Collins had already identified him as Martin Donner; probably nobody even considered him when they were asked."

Steve reflected bitterly on the cleverness of this. Once the staff had accepted their new patient as having a particular identity, they probably wouldn't have questioned it even if they'd seen Mark's picture in the newspaper. Kathy went off to get 'Martin Donner's' file and records, while Steve waited with Mark for the ambulance to arrive. He looked down at his father, noticing the fading bruises on the side of his face, and suddenly wondered just what Sanders had done with his father over the course of the past week. His stomach twisted as he thought of his father, confused and vulnerable, in Sanders' power all that time.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the ambulance crew. He felt the shoulder under his hand tense suddenly, and looked down to see that Mark was watching the EMTs with apprehension. He gently patted his father's shoulder.

"It's okay, Dad," he assured him. "We're just going to get you out of here; we're going to take you to Community General Hospital – they'll get you all fixed up." 

Mark viewed the approach of the EMTs with trepidation. The sight of medical personnel wheeling a stretcher with clearly visible restraining straps was certainly calculated to instill a sense of anxiety in him. He wished his mind were clear enough to think properly. There had been little in the past week to lead him to trust anyone. And the fact that the drugs he had been given over the past few days had been specifically chosen for their anxiety-producing effects didn't help any; although that, of course, he didn't know. He looked back up at the man beside him, seeing the concern and reassurance in his face. He seemed to be sincere in his concern for Mark's well-being; hopefully, wherever this Steve was planning on taking him would be better than where he was. 

Steve watched as the EMTs transferred Mark to the stretcher. It occurred to him that it would be wise to alert Jesse to the situation before they got there. It was bound to be a shock to him as well; and the less commotion and confusion there was, Steve reflected, the better it would be for his father. He pulled out his cell phone and placed the call to the hospital, breaking the news to Jesse as quickly and concisely as he could. He then hurried to catch up with the ambulance crew.


	7. Chapter 7

****

Chapter 7

As Steve climbed into the ambulance, behind the EMTs, he saw his father look over at him. He thought he detected a lessening of the tension in Mark's face, although he didn't say anything. Steve felt his heart turn over at the thought of what his father must be going through. He tried to imagine what it must feel like to have woken one day, injured and confused, with no knowledge of who or what you were. And then to have been suddenly thrust into the hell he knew Sanders must have created for him, told that you were one person, shoved into a mental institution, kept drugged, abandoned, and friendless for a week, only to have another stranger appear out of nowhere and suddenly tell you that you were someone totally different, and whisk you away to another unknown place where God-knew-what awaited you this time. It was no wonder Mark had looked so confused and uncertain; it was amazing that he wasn't a complete wreck. For some reason, he seemed to have accepted Steve as someone to trust; Steve wanted to believe that was due to the strength of the bond between them – that, even though Mark didn't consciously recognize him, at some deeper level the emotional trust still held. Whatever the reason, however, if his presence could alleviate some of the stress of this nightmare, he was determined to be there every step of the way to lend his father whatever support he could. He moved as close to Mark as possible and tried to smile reassuringly at him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll be at Community General soon," he said. "I told Jesse we were coming, and he'll check you out."

"Jesse?" Mark queried.

"He's a doctor and a good friend," Steve told him. "He'll take good care of you." He thought he saw a faint look of concern in his father's face, and promised, "I'll be with you the whole time." He smiled slightly, adding as lightly as he could, "Hey, I've just spent the last week looking for you; I'm not letting you out of my sight!" Mark nodded silently, seeming reassured, and his eyelids started to droop, as the rhythmic motion of the ambulance combined with the effects of the sedative to lull him to sleep. Steve sat quietly beside him for the rest of the ride, watching his father, his hand lingering on Mark's shoulder. After the long days of fearing that he might never see his dad again, he found the contact comforting himself – he could only hope it was helping his father as well.

When they arrived at Community General, the jostling of moving the stretcher roused Mark. He looked around in confusion, as he felt himself being lifted. Dazed and disoriented from the drugged sleep, feeling the restraints securing him to the stretcher, anxiety stabbed through him. He tensed, looking around at the lights and people, trying to get his bearings. A man in a white doctor's coat appeared beside him, issuing orders to the people around him.

"Bring him into Treatment Room 1. Set up an IV with saline and electrolytes and draw some blood for a full work up and tox panel." He looked down at Mark, placing a hand on his arm. "Mark? You're in the ER; we're gonna take real good care of you." Failing to get any sign of recognition, Jesse exchanged glances with Steve and refrained from pressing further.

Steve followed the stretcher into the treatment room, again noticing that his father looked for him and seemed to find some reassurance in his continued presence. As Jesse and the orderlies lifted Mark onto the examination table, Steve took up a position far enough back to be out of the way, but where Mark could easily see him.

"Okay, Mark, we're just going to check you out now, okay?" Jesse said reassuringly. Receiving a nod, he started the physical exam, searching for signs of skull fracture, checking the reactivity of Mark's pupils, looking for indications of trauma to the head or brain, attempting to keep a flow of reassuring chatter going. It was a lot harder than it usually was. The few times he had had to treat Mark for injuries had always felt a bit strange, but dealing with a Mark who didn't even recognize him, who was obviously tense and uneasy with the whole situation, was threatening to rock him right off his balance. He tried pretending this was just any patient who was a bit nervous, and concentrated on the exam itself. That attitude lasted until they removed Mark's shirt and he got a good look at the bruises on his friend's torso and arms. The spectacularly colored bruising at the base of the rib cage drew his attention immediately.

"These bruises aren't more than a couple of days old," he observed in surprise, looking at his friend. Mark gazed back at him silently, and Jesse looked over at Steve. 

"He's been in that 'institution' for the whole week," Steve confirmed grimly. He moved closer to his father. "Tell us what happened, Dad," he said gently.

Mark looked up at him for a moment and sighed. He had trusted this man so far, he might as well go all the way. "I had a little disagreement with an orderly," he said.

Jesse looked appalled. "You mean a member of the _staff_ did this?!" he exclaimed. "I hope you reported him," he added grimly.

"That's what the disagreement was about," Mark responded dryly. 

"He could have broken a rib! Or caused internal bleeding!" Jesse raged, not catching, for a moment, the significance of what Mark had just said.

Mark shook his head slightly. "Nothing that serious. Anything that would require a trip to the infirmary would attract too much attention."

This time, the implication of Mark's reply was too obvious to miss. Horrified, Jesse looked over at Steve, who looked like he was going to be sick. Jesse didn't blame him – he was feeling nauseated himself. They all knew, and deplored the fact, that cases of abuse did occur in these institutions, but to have it happen to someone you knew and admired and cared about was indescribably painful as well as revolting. 

"I have a feeling the Exeter Institute is going to be receiving a whole lot of attention from the Board of Health very shortly," Jesse said. He clung grimly to as much of his professional detachment as he could, as he gently checked Mark for further injuries. Turning him over, he saw the unmistakable signs of overly tightened restraints on the back of Mark's arms and legs. He frowned. Usually such marks, if they occurred at all – and they shouldn't, if the restraints were used properly – would be found on the front of the limbs, since patients were usually restrained while lying on their backs. And they should never be this bad. With a feeling that he really didn't want to hear the answer, he asked Mark about those bruises as well.

"I didn't want the injection in the back," Mark replied wearily. 

"What injection did they give you in the back?" Jesse questioned, looking closely for signs of needle punctures.

"They said it was for pain, but I didn't need it for pain. But they didn't like arguments."

Jesse was afraid to even look at Steve this time. He went on to check Mark's reflexes, had him move his legs and arms, and noted that although he had a significant lessening of feeling and reflexes in his legs, he was able to move them. He suspected that those shots in the back had had less to do with pain management and more to do with immobilizing Mark. Finally, he was finished with the exam. He looked down at his friend, who was lying with eyes closed, exhausted by the probing and the remaining effects of the sedative.

"Okay," Jesse said, looking over at the nurse who had been assisting him. "I want him sent up for X-rays of the chest and back, and both a head and body MRI. And have Admitting get a room ready for him." As he stepped over to the corner of the room to remove his gloves, Steve joined him.

"How bad is it?" Steve asked quietly.

Jesse looked at him soberly. "It's hard to say. As far as the bruises go, there doesn't seem to be any internal damage, but we'll get the X-rays and MRI to be sure." He met his friend's eyes grimly. "I'm sure Mark's right – those injuries were nicely calculated to inflict pain without causing any significant damage."

"I'd like to go over there and inflict some 'significant damage' myself," Steve responded through gritted teeth. "And when I get through with the bastard who did that to him, he's going to be in serious need of medical attention himself."

"Just make sure he doesn't get sent here," Jesse responded with mordant humor. "I'm not sure I could hold to my Hippocratic Oath if he showed up in the ER."

They exchanged glances of complete understanding, and Steve blew out a deep breath. 

"What about the amnesia?" he asked, getting back to the immediate concern of his father's condition. 

"It's too soon to tell," Jesse replied. "Obviously there was some significant initial head trauma. His reflexes and responses are slow, but that could be from the drugs they've been pumping into him. We'll have to wait for the results of the MRI to show us if there's any sign of damage. But he seems cogent enough, under the circumstances – that's a good sign. It may be that his condition will improve once the effects of all the drugs wear off. The toxicology panel may give us a clue on what to expect there." Looking at the anxiety and strain in his friend's face, Jesse wished he could have given a more positive response. 

The orderlies arrived to wheel Mark up to the radiology department, and Steve moved to go with them. Jesse put a hand on his arm.

"Steve, you know you can't go into the X-ray or MRI rooms with him," he said.

"I can at least stay with him until the last moment, and be waiting for him outside the door," Steve replied. As the orderlies lifted Mark back onto a gurney, Steve saw his father open his eyes and look around with a noticeable return of anxiety. "Jesse, I'm not leaving him alone like this. In fact, I want you to get a cot set up in his room for me for tonight."

Jesse saw the determination in his friend's face, and nodded. He didn't much like the thought of leaving Mark alone like this either. _And how much more alone can you be_, he thought, _when not only don't you know anyone around you, you don't even know yourself?_ "I'll take care of it," he said, as Steve trotted over to catch up with the gurney. 


	8. Chapter 8

****

Chapter 8

The rest of the day passed quietly. The X-rays and MRIs came back negative, to everyone's relief. The blood tests revealed traces of the drugs used in spinal blocks, confirming Jesse's suspicions that the injections that Mark had been given in his back had been used to deaden his sensation in his legs so that he would be unable to walk. There were also traces of drugs that, when combined with the sedatives he had obviously been given regularly, would have acted to induce a state of heightened mental confusion and anxiety. Taken all together, while the picture that emerged of deliberate, calculated abuse and cruelty was enough to drive Steve to the brink of homicide, it was encouraging them to hope that when the last of the drugs was finally flushed from Mark's system, there was a good chance that he would regain his memory. Or at least most of it. As Jesse reluctantly pointed out, it was not uncommon for amnesia victims, even those who had not experienced the additional complications of mind-altering drugs, to have some permanent loss of memory. 

While Steve had not been particularly happy to hear that, right now he felt that he could cope with almost anything if Mark could at least regain his knowledge of himself and his son. Not only was the sight of his father so confused and anxious heartwrenching, he felt a lot like he had finally located Mark only to find a stranger inhabiting his body. He wanted his father back whole – mentally, physically, and emotionally.

Mark spent most of the rest of the day sleeping off the effects of the sedatives. Steve refused to leave him, not wanting him to wake up and find himself alone and confused, perhaps wondering what new disasters were about to befall him. It wasn't until the dinner tray was delivered, however, that Mark awoke. Hearing the rattle of the food cart and the clink of the tray as it was placed on the rolling bedside table, Mark opened his eyes and looked around, momentarily disoriented as he tried to place these new surroundings. 

Steve saw his dad looking around and moved over to the bed.

"Hey there. Have a good nap?" he asked lightly. He saw recognition on his father's face, but realized, with a pang of disappointment, that it was only the limited recognition of their new 'acquaintance'. He knew it was too soon to expect any more; he hadn't even realized until that moment that he had been unconsciously hoping that somehow his father would wake up and really know him again. But he was disappointed nonetheless.

"Hi." Mark looked up at this man – Steve? – who had stayed by his side from the moment he had appeared. "You're still here," he observed, somewhat surprised by this fact. Certainly nothing he had seen or experienced in the past week had led him to expect such consideration or devotion on the part of one person for another. 

"So's your dinner," replied Steve, trying to maintain the light tone. He hadn't missed that note of surprise; he found it heartrending in its implications that Mark had not expected anyone to care enough to stay by him. He rolled the table into place over the bed and pressed the button to raise the bed to an upright position. He removed the cover from the dinner tray. "Voila," he announced. "Dinner is served."

Mark picked disinterestedly at the food, his attention focussed on his new surroundings. His mind was clearing now that the effects of the sedative had worn off, and he had a multitude of questions he needed answered. He looked up at Steve, wondering how to broach them.

Steve watched his father, not wanting to rush him in any way, giving him time to take in everything around him. When he saw Mark looking at him hesitantly, he decided to try opening the conversation.

"I know this must all be confusing," he said quietly. 

Mark nodded, relieved at the understanding and openness he perceived in Steve's attitude. He decided that it was probably safe to ask questions without fear of negative reprisals.

"You said I'm not really Martin Donner?" he asked, starting with the basics.

"Your name is Mark Sloan," Steve replied. "And I'm your son, Steve."

Mark thought he detected a brief flicker of pain in Steve's eyes as he was obliged to identify himself to his father. "I'm sorry," he apologized, hating to hurt this person who seemed to care about him.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Steve told him, keeping his voice level with an effort. "This has to be a nightmare for you – I just want to help any way I can."

"You are helping," Mark said, touched by the obvious sincerity in Steve's voice. "It's just that I don't seem to know anything about myself or anything else."

"I know, Dad," Steve responded. "Why don't we just start with whatever questions you have so far, and then we'll take it from there."

"Am I a psychiatric patient?" This was a question that had plagued Mark all along – he just had trouble feeling like the person whose history he had been given.

"No, Dad, you're not." If the question weren't so obviously in earnest, Steve reflected, it would almost be funny, it was so far from the truth. Considering all the tragedies and traumas his father had weathered over the years, he had long ago decided that Mark had to be one of the most stable personalities he knew. "You're a doctor – the head of Internal Medicine here at Community General."

Mark considered that piece of information. It certainly explained a few things – like his familiarity with certain medical terms and procedures that had surprised himself and some of the staff at Exeter. They had assumed that it was due to the amount of time he had spent in other institutions, but apparently he was a medical professional himself. Which brought up the next question.

"So how did I end up in the Exeter Institute?"

Steve stifled a sigh. That was certainly the million-dollar question, he thought. 

"We're still trying to figure that out," he answered. "You disappeared last Thursday night; we found your car about a half-mile from the Institute, stripped, but there was no sign of you. We're not really sure if you had some kind of an accident or were attacked. I'm not even sure if Sanders – Collins – caused whatever it was. My partner's been questioning him, and he claims that you were brought into the Institute, already injured, by one of the orderlies. Unfortunately, that orderly is currently away on vacation. We're trying to get hold of him to verify the story." He paused to see how his father was reacting to this. "Do you remember anything about what happened?" 

Mark shook his head thoughtfully. "The only thing I remember is waking up – in the Infirmary, I guess – not knowing anything about who I was or what had happened." His eyes darkened as he remembered that initial confusion and the dismay he had felt on being informed of his supposed identity and history. 

"What happened then?" Steve asked. 

"Dr. Collins told me that I was Martin Donner – a psychiatric patient with a history of violence; that I had been injured in a fight." Mark looked up at Steve in confusion. "Why would he lie about that? Why did he keep me there?"

"He wanted revenge, Dad," Steve explained as gently as possible. "His real name is Dennis Sanders, and several years ago you helped send him to jail for manslaughter."

Mark was quiet for a minute, processing what he had heard. He thought of all the things Collins had told him and done to him, and realized that just about everything he thought he 'knew' about himself was probably fake. He looked back at Steve. "So all those 'medications' and injections he gave me…?"

"They were apparently designed to keep you confused and incapacitated," Steve replied grimly. "He must have known that was the only way he'd be able to get away with what he was doing to you." 

"How did you find me?" Mark asked, after a moment.

"A reporter was killed in a car crash on her way back from the Exeter Institute," Steve told him. "I went there to follow up on what she had been investigating, and found out that she had been asking questions about you – as Martin Donner."

"Why would she be asking about me?"

"We think she must have recognized you, or seen something that made her suspicious," Steve replied. "It looks now like Sanders may have killed her to prevent her from telling anyone you were there." He saw that his father still looked confused.

"Why would she recognize me? Did she know me?"

There was a slight smile in Steve's eyes as he explained, "You're a pretty well-known person, Dad. Besides your hospital activities and the various boards and commissions you've served on, you're also a consultant for the police department. You've solved quite a lot of high-profile cases for us."

Mark looked surprised and intrigued. "Providing medical expertise?" he asked.

"You do a lot more than provide medical expertise," Steve replied. "You've got a real talent for figuring things out and solving mysteries of all types." 

Mark contemplated this information thoughtfully. There was certainly a lot to take in, and it cast an interesting light on his life; obviously he was not the useless wreck he had been made to feel at Exeter. 

Steve watched as Mark relapsed into silence, wishing he knew what was going on in his father's mind. He noticed that Mark was just toying with his food, apparently lost in thought. 

"Come on, Dad," he urged gently, "you need to eat."

Mark surveyed the meal before him disparagingly. It didn't seem much better than the food he had been getting at the Exeter Institute. However, he could see the concern in his son's eyes, so he figured he might as well try to get it all down; besides, with the decline of the amount of drugs in his system, he was actually starting to feel hungry for a change. He speared another forkful and ate it, grimacing. 

"Well, I've discovered another thing about myself already," he commented dryly. "I hate hospital food." He saw Steve's face light up in the first smile of genuine amusement he'd seen.

"I know," Steve replied. "I promise – tomorrow I'll get us ribs for dinner."

Mark focussed his attention on this man who claimed to be his son. Affection showed clearly through the amusement which had softened Steve's face, easing the tension and anxiety that Mark was beginning to recognize for what they were. Even in his drugged state, he had realized that this man cared about him; now that his mind was clearer – if still distressingly empty of memories – he could better recognize the depth of the concern that showed in Steve's face and appreciate his willingness to spend his time in constant attendance to provide support for this mentally confused parent. Mark reflected that he seemed to be very fortunate in his son. 

"Aren't you going to go get something to eat?" he asked, not really wanting him to leave, but thinking it was time he showed some consideration for Steve's needs.

Steve shook his head. "Amanda brought me up something from the cafeteria a little while ago. I'm fine."

"Who's Amanda? And surely you could do better than the cafeteria? That can't be much better than this stuff."

Steve smiled at him. "That's okay; I don't mind the hospital food. You guys are always getting on my case about it."

" 'We guys'?" 

"You and Jesse and Amanda. Jesse you've already seen – he's the doctor who examined you when you got here. Amanda's Dr. Amanda Bentley, the chief pathologist here and the county assistant medical examiner. She came up to see you earlier, but you were still asleep." God, it felt weird to be explaining who their best friends were to his father. Having to explain every detail, person, and place he mentioned to a man who normally seemed to understand everything practically before it was spoken was going to take a lot of getting used to. On second thought, he hoped to God that the situation wasn't going to last long enough for him to get used to it.

"Jesse and Amanda are two of our closest friends," Steve continued. "Amanda sent you her love; she really wanted to be here when you woke up, but her sitter had to leave, so she had to get home to her boys. Her son CJ is your godson, by the way." He saw a strange look pass across his father's face and paused. "What is it, Dad?" he asked.

Mark looked up at him thoughtfully. "I seem to have a quite a little circle of family and friends," he said. "Collins said I had none – no family, no one who cared."

Steve felt his heart constrict again, and he sat on the edge of the bed, laying his hand on his father's arm, using the physical contact to try to establish an emotional connection as well.

"Anything he said to you was a lie, Dad," he said earnestly. "And that was probably the biggest lie of all. You have me; and Jesse and Amanda are as close to family as anyone could possibly be. This whole hospital is full of people who love you, and you have friends everywhere from the governor's office to the back streets of the city. Have no one? Hell, Dad, you have more friends who care about you than just about anyone I know."

The warmth and sincerity in Steve's voice washed over Mark, drawing him in to share in that warmth. He found tears stinging his eyes, and blinked them away. He looked back at Steve and saw that he was watching him with concern and compassion. He felt a surge of gratitude for this son who was demonstrating such support and understanding. 

Steve waited for his father to pull himself together, knowing that he hated to be caught succumbing to emotion. Although, he reflected, it was hard to know what the correct responses were right now, when his father so obviously wasn't his usual self. He fought with the competing waves of anger and compassion that flooded through him as he wondered what other mental torments Sanders had devised for his father, in addition to the physical ones he had already glimpsed. 

An interruption occurred at that point in the form of a kitchen helper arriving to remove the dinner tray. By the time she had managed to knock the mobile table top into Mark's chest, drop the tray cover onto the bed, and step on Steve's foot when he tried to help her, the emotionally heavy atmosphere had been displaced by a welcome dose of comic relief. When she had finally departed, Steve and Mark exchanged glances of exasperated amusement.

"I haven't seen anybody that klutzy around here since Nurse Sudie was looking after you when you broke your leg," Steve said, with a laugh.

"How did I break my leg," Mark asked curiously. Steve looked over at him, a gleam of amusement still in his face.

"You had a head-on collision with a supply cart."

"I broke a leg walking into a supply cart?" Mark asked incredulously.

"No, you broke a leg colliding with a supply cart while riding a motorized scooter," Steve explained, wondering how his father was going to react to this.

"I ride a scooter around the hospital?" Mark asked. "Is that common practice here?"

"Only for you," replied Steve, smiling. He watched with interest as Mark pondered this for a moment. Then his father looked up, a distinct twinkle in his eye.

"Sounds like fun," he said. "I hope I get to do it again!"

Steve's smile grew into a bona fide grin, his heart suddenly feeling lighter. Mark might have lost his memory, and he might be confused and unstable from all the drugs he'd been given, but apparently his basic personality hadn't undergone much change. It might take a while for them to adjust, but, for the first time that day, Steve actually felt like this really was his father.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you," he told Mark, trying to straighten his face, "but, you sort of gave up on using the scooter around the hospital after that – you didn't want to risk running into one of the patients." He paused, seeing Mark accept that, before adding: "Now you mostly stick to your roller skates." He watched with satisfaction as his father's eyebrows rose and the corners of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Well, at least it doesn't sound like I lead a boring and conventional life," Mark commented.

That brought a genuine burst of laughter from his son. "No, Dad," he replied, his eyes alight with affectionate humor, "whatever else you might be, you're certainly not boring and conventional!"

Jesse entered the room a little later, pleased to find Mark sitting up and talking to Steve. "Hey, it's nice to see you awake," he said brightly. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I was," Mark admitted.

"Well I don't suppose that's saying much," the younger doctor quipped dryly.

Mark smiled slightly, acknowledging the truth of that observation. "So, what's my prognosis?" he asked.

"Well," replied Jesse, shooting a quick glance at Steve, "so far, everything looks pretty good. All the tests came back negative. Obviously, you suffered a pretty severe concussion, but it seems to have cleared up pretty well – there are no signs of swelling or lesions on the MRI. The X-rays of your spine also seem normal. Let's check your reflexes again and see if you've got more feeling and mobility in your legs."

For the next few minutes, Jesse took Mark through various movements and tests, periodically asking questions designed to elicit information about Mark's mental state as well. When he was finished, he made a few notes on the chart he had brought in with him. 

"So, what's the verdict?" Mark asked.

"It looks good," Jesse said with satisfaction. "Your reflexes are greatly improved, and you obviously have good use of your legs. I have no doubt that the only reason you were in a wheelchair was because of the injections they gave you. Fortunately, they didn't do any real damage; they just temporarily deadened the nerves in that area. Now that the drugs are clearing out of your system, everything's coming back to normal." 

"When can I take him home?" Steve asked.

"Assuming he can get around okay by morning – and he should be able to – there's no reason you can't take him home tomorrow," Jesse replied. "In fact, being in familiar surroundings may help jog his memory."

Steve nodded in satisfaction. He just wanted to get his father home and back to some semblance of normalcy. He hoped that would stimulate Mark's memory, and he hoped even more that it would help dispel the lingering horrors of his incarceration in the Exeter Institute and allow him to feel more at ease and like himself. 

After Jesse had left, an orderly came in with the portable cot that Steve had requested. Mark watched in surprise as they set it up. 

"What's that for?" he asked.

"I'm going to stay here tonight," Steve replied.

"Steve, that's not necessary," Mark protested, nevertheless feeling a surprising degree of gratification that his son had intended to do this.

"It's okay, Dad, I want to." Steve was glad the abnormal anxiety his father had been experiencing was obviously lessening, but he had no intentions of leaving him alone yet. "We can go home together tomorrow."

"But you've been here waiting on me all day. You're exhausted," Mark said in concern. "You should go home and get some real sleep."

"I'm fine, Dad," Steve assured him. "And I'll feel better if I'm here. Like I said earlier – now that I've found you, I'm not letting you out of my sight." He saw that his father was still unconvinced, and added with a slight smile, "Besides, it's not like you haven't done the same thing for me." That succeeded in distracting Mark.

"What do you mean?"

"There've been several times when I've been in the hospital and you stayed with me," he explained. "I'm just returning the favor." 

"What were you in for?" Mark asked.

Steve hesitated an instant before replying. The last thing he wanted to do was to have his father's first returning memories be of some of his most painful experiences. He shrugged, answering lightly, "I'm a cop. Occasional hospitalizations are an occupational hazard." He saw Mark mull that over, and went on, hoping to prevent him from thinking about it too closely. "Don't worry about me, Dad. Compared to some of the nights I've spent on stakeout, this'll be luxury accommodations!" He was relieved to see his father smile in response.

They chatted for a while longer, and Mark soon began to feel sleepy. Steve sat quietly leafing through a magazine, giving his father a chance to drift off. But Mark found himself watching his son, noticing the lines of strain and fatigue that showed in Steve's face when he thought he was unobserved. He tried to consider the events of the past week from Steve's perspective. Given his obvious attachment to his father, he must have been frantic with worry during the week that Mark had been missing. And on top of that extended period of concern had come the current strain of dealing with an amnesiac, needy father. Mark felt a pang of guilt at being the cause of all this stress and unhappiness, even though he knew it was hardly his fault.

Steve looked up and caught his father staring at him. "Dad?" 

"This must be as hard for you as it is for me," Mark observed quietly.

Steve's face softened in surprise. "It's okay, Dad," he responded. He was further surprised when Mark shook his head slightly.

"I hate to think what you must have been going through for the last week, searching for me. And then when you finally find me, I don't even recognize you," Mark said sadly. "I can't imagine what this must be like for you."

Steve found himself taken aback by this unexpected perceptiveness. That Mark could already see past his own pain and confusion to recognize the impact on the son he didn't even remember yet touched him deeply. 

"It's okay, Dad," he repeated gently. "We'll get through this together, like we always do." He met the regret in his father's eyes with as much reassurance as he could put into his own. "We're both going to be fine," he said.

Mark held his gaze for a moment longer, then sighed and closed his eyes, allowing himself to succumb to the fatigue that engulfed him. 

He hadn't been asleep long when the night nurse entered the room, making her rounds at the start of her shift. The noise startled Mark awake; he tensed automatically, his sleep-disoriented mind flashing back to the nightly 'games' that had become standard bed-time routine at the Institute. Steve caught the sudden intake of breath and involuntary jerk of motion, and looked over at his father alertly. 

"Dad?"

The sound of Steve's voice broke through the mists of apprehension that had suddenly gripped Mark. He turned his head and met his son's concerned gaze. The tension eased as he realized that he was no longer at Exeter, that there would be no nighttime torments here. 

Steve moved over to the bed, placing a reassuring hand on his father's arm. "You okay?" he asked softly.

Mark nodded, and his eyelids started to droop, as he felt himself relax again into drowsiness. Steve watched as his father settled back to drift off again, wondering what had sparked that sudden tension and how long it would be before the emotional scars left by his week-long ordeal would fade. The sooner he got Mark back to a normal environment, the better, he thought. 

"Sleep well, Dad," he murmured quietly. "Tomorrow we'll go home."


	9. Chapter 9

****

Chapter 9

The next morning, Amanda showed up bearing breakfast. She had been devastated by the tale Steve and Jesse had told her about Mark's ordeal, and was determined to do whatever she could to help. She wasn't sure how to deal with the fact that Mark wouldn't know her, but she was going to make sure that he knew that he was back among friends who loved him. And she was going to start by making sure he and Steve had a decent breakfast. 

As she entered the room, Steve came over to greet her, sniffing appreciatively at the aroma of freshly baked goods emanating from the bags she was carrying.

"Mmmmm, what's all this?" he asked, as she placed the multitude of bags she was bearing on the table.

"Breakfast," she replied as she moved over to the bed, where Mark was sitting up. She sat on the edge of the bed and enveloped him in a big hug.

"Mark, I'm so glad you're back," she said. "We were so worried about you."

Mark felt himself wrapped in Amanda's warmth and obvious affection. He wasn't quite sure how to respond; he knew from what Steve had said that she was a close friend, and he hated to hurt her by his inability to remember her. At least, since Steve had greeted her by name, he knew who she was.

"Amanda?" he said tentatively.

He saw compassion and understanding in her eyes as she gazed back at him.

"It's okay, Mark, I know you don't remember me," she said reassuringly. "But I know you, and you might as well get used to me, because I'm going to be around a lot." She turned and reached for the bags she had brought. "And to start with, I thought we could all have breakfast together," she said matter-of-factly. She started pulling items out of the bags, and Mark raised an eyebrow as she produced a feast of donuts, bagels, cream cheese, jam, and fresh fruit. When she handed Steve a cup of strong coffee, he kissed her on the check.

"Amanda, you are a true friend," he said gratefully. "I was getting pretty sick of the hospital coffee."

They ate and chatted, and if Steve and Amanda did most of the talking, Steve noticed that Mark seemed to be relaxed and content with the situation. As they were eating, Jesse came by and promptly starting whining good-naturedly about them having already eaten all the good donuts. Steve tossed a bagel half at him, and they laughed. Mark took it all in, enjoying the casual camaraderie, knowing that they were including him in that close-knit circle. But he still felt like he was outside looking in, and he wondered when, or if, he would again fit easily into that group, understanding all the underlying jokes and character quirks.

Eventually, Jesse declared that it was time for him to get down to the ER, and he wanted to examine Mark before he went. So Amanda gave Mark another quick hug, and went down to the pathology lab, leaving Jesse to check Mark out.

Jesse was quite pleased with the results of the exam, and decided it was time to get his friend up and walking. Mark was rather unsteady at first, the week-long stint of total immobility, poor nutrition, and general stiffness from his various bruises all taking their toll. He leaned heavily on his son in the beginning, wryly remarking, "So, now you're propping me up physically, too!"

Steve smiled back at him encouragingly. "You don't need much propping. You're finding your feet nicely already." He hadn't missed the implicit reference to the emotional support he'd been trying to supply, and knew that his father would realize he was responding to that as well. He was, in fact, somewhat surprised at his certainty that his father would understand. It was pretty amazing, he reflected, how quickly their emotional rapport was reestablishing itself even without the return of Mark's memory. He found that very comforting.

After a few minutes, Mark felt fairly stable. He noticed that Steve stayed close beside him anyway, ready to provide support should it be needed. By now, he didn't find this at all surprising. What he was surprised at was the speed with which he was learning to understand this son of his. He knew that when he was ready to try a foray out on his own, Steve would stay back without needing to be told. He was also certain, he reflected with a glint of humor, that Steve would worry about him until he was safely returned.

Mark was finding his stroll through the corridors to be beneficial in many ways. For one thing, the sensation of being mobile again was helping to counteract the feeling of helplessness that he had been experiencing. With the return of independent motion came a realization that he was no longer physically dependent on others for his care or basic transportation. There was also the fact that just about everyone he passed smiled and greeted him by name, seeming genuinely pleased to see him up and about. Many took a few moments to stop and chat, welcome him back, or wish him a speedy recovery. He recalled what Steve had said to him the previous night about the many friends he had, and realized with gratification that it seemed to be true. It was very reassuring, not just in its verification of Steve's veracity, but in its indication of the type of man he must be. 

Steve noticed the effect the walk was having on his father, and mentally blessed the hospital staff for the warmth that they were displaying. It pained him to think of the searing loneliness that his father must have endured during the past week, and he was devoutly grateful for anything that helped to dispel it. He didn't miss the slight increase in confidence his father was exhibiting, either. He felt distinctly more hopeful as they returned to Mark's room.

Once Jesse had approved Mark's release, Steve was anxious to get him home as soon as possible. The first order of business was to get him some clothes. He didn't want to waste time going home to pick up fresh clothes, and he was determined not to have him wear the ones he had worn from the Institute. He didn't want to see anything associated with the Exeter Institute anywhere near his father – for his own sake as well as Mark's. The memory of his first sight of his father, slumped in that wheelchair, drugged, confused, looking old and neglected, was burned painfully into his mind; he didn't need any physical reminders of that image. Jesse remembered that Mark usually kept a spare sweatsuit in his office for emergencies, and went off to retrieve it.

Once Mark was dressed, an orderly brought the wheelchair that was the standard mode of transportation for a departing patient. Steve noticed that his father hesitated, staring reluctantly at the chair and the orderly. 

"I suppose I couldn't just walk out?" Mark asked, keeping his voice light.

"It's just routine, Mark," Jesse replied before Steve could say anything. "All our patients get a nice ride out of here."

Steve took the chair from the orderly, telling him that he would wheel his father down. Given what they knew about Mark's experiences with at least one orderly at the Institute, he thought he could understand his father feeling a trifle wary, as well as his reluctance to get back in a wheelchair. The orderly left, and Steve wheeled the chair closer to the bed, but made no move to rush his father into it. After a brief pause, Mark sighed and got up, allowing Jesse to help him transfer to the chair. 

As they moved through the halls to the elevator, Steve pushing the chair and Jesse chatting away, they heard the sudden 'Code Blue' announcement that indicated a patient in cardiac arrest. Jesse abruptly left to respond to the call, as other staff hurried through the halls as well. Steve was about to wheel the chair over to the side of the corridor to get out of the way, when a young nurse with a crash cart rounded the corner at top speed, plowing into Steve and breaking his hold on the wheelchair, impelling the chair rapidly down the hallway. With a breathless apology, the nurse hurried on.

Steve recovered his balance quickly and, in a few long, rapid strides, reached the chair, grabbing it before it hit anything. Somewhat surprised that his father hadn't braked the chair himself, he looked down to see Mark's eyes closed, his hands tightly gripping the arms of the wheelchair, knuckles white, tension in every line of his body. Alarmed, Steve dropped down to crouch in front of the chair, one hand grasping his father's arm in an automatic gesture of reassurance.

"Dad?" He saw Mark's eyes open and stare blankly for a moment before focussing on him. "What is it? Are you all right?" _Stupid question,_ he mentally castigated himself. _He's obviously not all right._

Mark sucked in a steadying breath. "I'm okay," he replied, trying to hide the shakiness in his voice. "I just … I just felt dizzy for a moment."

Steve stared at him in concern, pondering the obvious lie. It didn't take a detective, he thought bitterly, to put this incident together with Mark's aversion to the wheelchair and the orderly, along with some of the bruises they had seen in the ER, and come up with a fair idea of yet another form of abuse that his father had undergone. His heart aching, he gently rubbed his father's arm, unsure what to say.

"I'm fine now," Mark said, not meeting his son's eyes. "Just take me home."

Steve hesitated for a brief moment, but acceded to Mark's obvious disinclination to discuss it at this time. He resumed wheeling his father out, mentally cursing the unfortunate young nurse for not watching where he was going.


	10. Chapter 10

****

Chapter 10

In the car, on the way out to Malibu, Mark found himself feeling a bit nervous about his return home. It wasn't that he didn't want to be 'home' – it was just that he wasn't sure what to expect there. Would there be any sense of familiarity? Or would 'home' be yet another strange, emotionally empty place? Would he be able to fend for himself there? Did he even know how to cook himself anything or where to go to get groceries or order out? His life suddenly seemed full of such mundane questions causing a disproportionate degree of concern. While he was sure Steve wasn't going to just drop him there and leave – it was both comforting and amazing how sure he was of that – his son was going to have to go back to his own home some time. Steve had already, Mark felt, spent an inordinate amount of time waiting on him; Mark didn't want to be any more of a burden than he could possibly help. He didn't even want to verbalize any of these questions for fear that Steve would feel compelled to stay even longer. _One step at a time_, he told himself. _Wait and see what happens when we get there – there's no point in anticipating trouble._ He found himself hoping that this state of constant underlying anxiety was due to the current extraordinary circumstances and not a part of his normal personality.

Steve noticed that his father seemed subdued during the ride home, and wondered if it was a result of the incident with the wheelchair or if there was something else causing it. It broke his heart to see his father this way and to think of the physical and emotional abuse to which he had been subjected. He didn't even know what to do to help him. It was taking all his self control at this point to contain the rage that was threatening to overwhelm him. He knew that, sometime soon, he was going to have to find an outlet for that anger – take a run, go to the gym, do something physical to let off steam before he erupted in an entirely inappropriate manner – like going down to the jail and beating Sanders to a pulp. Maybe going to the gym was a good idea; he could pretend the punching bag was Sanders and beat the stuffing out of it. 

Eventually, they arrived at the beach house, and Steve pulled the car into the driveway, saying lightly, "Here we are." He helped his father out and walked with him to the door. As they entered the house, he watched Mark look around, and couldn't help hoping to see some sign of familiarity. But Mark looked around with the air of a man seeing the place for the first time. Steve stifled a sigh and showed his father into his study.

Mark gazed around the study, observing a pleasant, comfortable room, obviously geared to the tastes and interests of its owner. He noticed the proliferation of musical instruments – a grand piano, a drum set, a clarinet, along with an expensive-looking stereo set. Apparently he liked music. He wondered if he actually played all those instruments. He walked out through the glass doors onto the deck and stood looking out over the beach. Steve came out to stand beside him, and for a split second, Mark thought he had a flash of memory, but it was gone before he could nail it down. He looked over to see Steve watching him.

"It's a lovely view," he said. Steve just nodded. Mark sighed. 

"You look tired, Dad," Steve observed. "Why don't you get cleaned up and rest for a bit?" 

"That's a good idea," Mark agreed. "You should do the same." 

Steve nodded. "I'll go downstairs and grab a quick shower. Then we can get a bite to eat and you can get some sleep."

"Steve, why don't you go on home for a while," Mark suggested, seeing the weariness in his son's face. "You could use a break from all this." 

Steve looked at him in surprise, and then realized that he had never actually mentioned their shared living arrangements. He had told Mark about his house on the beach, but they had never specifically discussed Steve's residence. He smiled at his father.

"I am home, Dad," he told him. "I live in an apartment downstairs."

Mark stared at him, at a loss for words. This had to be a father's dream. Not only did he apparently get to work with this son, they actually lived together? He might be short on memories, but somehow he knew this wasn't exactly the norm. Unless he was infirm enough that Steve felt he needed someone to live with him? But nothing he'd heard so far suggested that was the case. In fact, if he was still practicing medicine and consulting for the police – not to mention roller skating around the hospital – it was highly unlikely that he required that kind of care. Whatever the reasons, he found he derived a rush of pleasure from the idea that Steve and he shared the house – a pleasure totally independent of the immediate relief of not being left alone just yet. 

Watching his father's reaction to his announcement, Steve saw surprise and puzzlement reflected briefly in his face, to be replaced by what looked like pleased acceptance. It was nice to know that, even if Mark didn't remember him, he liked the idea of having him around. They had always been so close, he had never had to question how much he meant to his father or how much Mark liked having him there. It was really weird to wonder suddenly just what his father thought of him now that he was meeting him as a stranger.

"Sounds like a nice arrangement," Mark commented, interrupting his son's reverie.

"We like it," Steve replied simply. He saw the glimmer of a smile on his father's face; then Mark cast a glance around and back to his son.

"So, where do I go to clean up?" he asked.

With a start, Steve remembered that his father didn't even know where his own room was. He thought he detected a return of the earlier depression in Mark's demeanor, and couldn't wonder at it. He could tell his father was finding it both frustrating and embarrassing to have to constantly ask for help or information about the smallest details of his life. He tried to keep his own attitude matter-of-fact as he showed his father to his room, casually grabbing him a towel from the linen closet and placing it in the master bathroom for him, hoping to spare him the necessity of having to ask about that as well. He briefly considered and rejected the idea of grabbing him some clothes. The closet and dresser were perfectly obvious, and if Mark didn't remember what he had, he had all the time in the world to look through his things and pick what he wanted. The more his father was able to do for himself, he thought, the better he would feel. 

Having done what he could to get Mark settled, Steve went down to his apartment to perform his own ablutions. As he stood in the shower, the steaming water coursing down his body, he felt himself relaxing for the first time. Unfortunately, that allowed the emotional upheaval of the last 24 hours to catch up with him. After a week of intense anxiety, just as he had been close to despairing that his father was indeed dead and gone forever, he had unexpectedly found him. But how different that reunion was from anything he had foreseen! That his father hadn't known him had hurt more than he would have imagined. The fact that Mark didn't even know himself only added to Steve's personal pain the additional anguish of sharing his father's pain. And then had come the revelations of the physical and mental abuse Mark had experienced, and his drug-induced emotional instability. In spite of feeling emotionally battered himself, Steve had had to remain calm and strong to support his father. Alone and unguarded now, the emotional backwash flooded over him, leaving him emotionally and physically drained. 

Steve sat on the edge of his bed after the shower, trying to pull himself together. He couldn't afford to fall apart now – his father still needed him. Mark was obviously struggling to cope with the strangeness of this suddenly blank and frustrating remnant of his life. So many times, Steve reflected, Mark had provided emotional strength, support, and comfort to his son through difficult times – when Steve had returned from Vietnam, the too-frequent occasions when a romance had gone tragically wrong, when the pressures of his job took too great an emotional toll. Now it was his turn to be the strong one and provide what comfort he could.

He reminded himself that things could have been so much worse. His father was alive and home, with no permanent physical injuries. The amnesia was painful for them both, and the emotional scars of Mark's experiences at the Exeter Institute would need time to heal, but heal he would. Even with his lack of memory, he had already shown that his personality remained essentially intact. In fact, one of the main reasons Steve wanted to hide his own mental and physical fatigue was that he didn't want to add to his father's worries – and Mark had already shown that he was worried about how his son was dealing with all this. Steve reflected wryly that Mark might not consciously remember that he was Steve's father, but he still acted like a dad.


	11. Chapter 11

****

Chapter 11

Steve came upstairs just as Mark came down from his room. The sight of his father looking like himself again in casual pants and a polo shirt, his hair once again clean and fluffy, did much to lighten his mood. The still hollow cheeks in a thinner face were the only visual reminder of the forlorn figure he had found at the Exeter Institute. Mark looked like he felt better, too; he seemed more relaxed, and his eyes were brighter. 

Steve managed to fix lunch for himself and his father despite the meager supplies in the kitchen. He hadn't spent any significant amount of time at the house since Mark had disappeared; he certainly hadn't bothered with any grocery shopping. Mark seemed quite satisfied with the canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, maintaining that anything was better than the hospital food. Steve promised that for dinner they'd have the ribs he'd mentioned last night. That brought the conversation around to BBQ Bob's, and Steve found himself telling his father all about the restaurant and how he and Jesse were co-owners with Mark. That carried them through lunch, after which they adjourned to the study.

Walking around his study, Mark found himself checking out the various photographs scattered around the room. He picked up one of himself, Steve, Amanda, and Jesse, all in formal attire. Steve looked over his shoulder to see which picture he was holding.

"That was taken a couple of years ago at the Joker's Club annual roast when you were named their 'Man of the Year'," he said, smiling. 

"Really?" Surprised, Mark took a closer look at the picture. 

"One of the more memorable awards dinners I've ever attended," Steve commented, with a reminiscent grin. He saw his father looking at him inquiringly, and elaborated. "One comedian was stabbed during the presentation and another was killed later, and we spent the rest of the night figuring out who did it and why."

"I take it we succeeded?" Mark asked with interest. 

Steve grinned at him again. "Well, actually, you did," he replied. He saw the surprise in Mark's face and added, "Like I said – you're good at this. You've got a knack for noticing things and recognizing the significance of details that most people either miss completely or dismiss as unimportant." He paused for a moment, his grin returning. "Although I admit you had me worried for a few minutes that time – you did such a good job of sounding like you were rambling off on tangents, you even had me fooled!" he teased.

Mark wandered around checking out various pictures and knickknacks around the room. Almost of all of them seemed to have a story associated with them – friends they had good times with, momentos of successfully solved cases. Steve was glad enough to talk to his father about the various pictures and objects he picked up. He hoped that maybe something would spark a memory for him. Fortunately, he reflected, most of the things his father kept out on display had good stories associated with them. After a while, though, he noticed that Mark seemed tired.

"I tell you what, Dad," he suggested. "Why don't you lie down and get some rest for a while, and later on we can go through some of your photo albums or scrap books or whatever you'd like." He thought for a moment that Mark would protest, but he seemed to reconsider, gazing speculatively at his son, and then agreeing. Steve was willing to bet that his father was figuring that, by agreeing to rest for a while, he could free Steve up to do the same. He hid a grin; it was a move very typical of his dad, although Mark wasn't usually so transparent about it. Steve had no intentions of sleeping, but there were a few things he wanted to check out that he'd rather not do within his father's hearing. 

Having settled his father in the lounge chair on the deck with a light blanket over him, Steve was left to his own devices for a while. He considered running into the station to see how Cheryl was making out, but didn't really want to leave Mark alone. He hated the thought of his dad wandering around alone in the still-unfamiliar house, unsure what to do with himself, perhaps giving way to the depression he was obviously trying to stave off. And if truth be told, he was feeling the need himself to stay within sight and touch of the father he had begun to think he'd never see again. So he settled for going downstairs to call Cheryl and have her give him a rundown of the situation.

It turned out that they apparently had gathered enough evidence to indict Sanders for the murder of Janice Randolph. The brake line on her car had been frayed, and they had found a pair of shears, bearing traces of what looked like brake fluid, in Sanders' desk. That should be enough to ensure that he went to jail for a very long time, even without what he had done to Mark. 

As he contemplated what to do next, Amanda called to see how Mark was doing. She and Jesse were hoping to come over later if Steve felt Mark was up to it. They decided that it would be a good idea; the more Mark was around his family and friends, the greater the chances that something would trigger his memory. Steve suggested they come out after work and asked Amanda to pick up the dinner at BBQ Bob's on the way.

Having done pretty much all he could do from home, Steve went back upstairs to check on his father. Finding him asleep on the lounge chair, he decided that he could probably take some time for at least a short run. He figured some physical exercise – something he'd been pretty short on for the last week – would be a good stress reliever. So he went back downstairs to change into shorts and a T-shirt, left a note for his father taped to the french doors leading back into the house, just in case Mark woke up before he returned, and set off down the beach.


	12. Chapter 12

****

Chapter 12

While Steve was out running, Mark woke up from his nap, feeling a bit fuzzy and confused. He had been dreaming, and he was pretty sure Steve was in it somewhere. But as is often the case with dreams, the memory of it vanished when he awoke – leaving him with a teasing sensation of being on the brink of remembering something, only to have it snatched away just beyond reach. He finally gave up the effort to recapture the dream, and went over to the edge of the deck to look out over the beach. 

Mark stood at the railing, taking in the sun-drenched scene before him. The ocean was relatively calm, the sound of the surf lapping up on the shore rhythmic and soothing. There were few people in sight at the moment, and the only sounds beside the breaking of the waves were the occasional drone of a passing boat and the call of the gulls as they swooped down and up around the beach. Mark drew a deep breath of the salt air, soaking up the brightness and beauty of the scene, marveling at the sudden change in his fortunes. To have been suddenly plucked from the dingy dreariness of the Exeter Institute, with its smell of antiseptic overlaying other, less savory odors of sickness and despair, and to find himself transplanted here was like being transported from the gates of hell back to the garden of Eden. And the extreme change in the physical environment was matched by the extraordinary difference in the emotional atmosphere. The loneliness, abandonment, and confusion he had felt for the last week were fading away in the warmth, caring and love he was being surrounded with by a son and friends that he didn't even know he had. 

He was suddenly overwhelmed with both a profound sense of gratitude and an intense desire to know more about these people and what part they played in each other's lives. Now that his mind was no longer clouded by drugs, perhaps he could piece together some sense of his life and relationships from the evidence provided by the pictures and momentos acquired over the years. With that in mind, he turned and headed back into the house.

As he opened the door to the house, he saw the note taped to it, and smiled slightly at this further evidence of Steve's obvious concern for him. He was both deeply grateful for and deeply intrigued by this son of his; he wanted to find out all he could about him. In the meantime, he was glad that Steve was getting a chance to do something to take care of his own well-being. Exercise was just thing, Mark thought, to let out some tension and take advantage of those mood-enhancing endorphins. Steve was obviously accustomed to regular exercise; it was good for him to resume a regular activity after the stress-filled, emotional period he'd been going through.

Mark entered his study, determined to take advantage of his temporary solitude to do some exploring. With the comfort of knowing that Steve would be back, and that he wouldn't be faced with any major problems that he wasn't quite ready to deal with yet, he found that he quite liked the idea of being alone for a while. He suspected that perhaps he actually enjoyed periods of solitude normally. 

He sat at his desk and opened drawers, looking through the contents. He really had an enormous assortment of papers, albums, pictures, and momentos of various kinds, he noticed. _I think I must be something of a pack rat_, he reflected ruefully. _I'm obviously not a compulsive thrower-outer!_ He started browsing through some of the letters and photo albums he found. Steve was, of course, heavily featured in the more recent ones, but they included pictures of friends as well, including many of Amanda and Jesse. He pored over them for a while, trying to get a sense of what his life was like. 

Obviously, his sense that Steve, Amanda, and Jesse formed quite a close-knit group was correct; there were pictures of birthday parties with a young boy, apparently Amanda's son – his godson, he remembered Steve telling him, social functions, various outings, what seemed to be the grand opening of the restaurant Steve had told him they owned – as if living together, solving crimes together, and socializing together wasn't enough, they were also business partners together?! – and many others. Mark found himself fascinated by one series of pictures of what he had first assumed to be CJ's birthday at a place called 'Pony Land'. There were several pictures of two young boys having pony rides, as well as several of the usual gang of himself, Steve, Jesse, and Amanda – nothing unusual there. What did seem a bit unusual was that the pictures also included several of Steve on one of the ponies, under a big banner that read 'Happy Birthday Steve'. Smiling at the sight of the very large Steve on the small pony, Mark wondered what was behind the selection of such a venue for an adult party; he'd definitely have to ask Steve about that one.

Mark continued going through assorted albums and momentos. He found everything from letters and postcards from various people – some of them thanking him for his help in various matters – to a file on 'interesting crimes' that contained newspaper clippings about unusual criminal activities or mysterious occurrences. What particularly drew his attention, however, was an album containing various news articles and clippings about Steve. He spent a considerable amount of time leafing through the write-ups, many of them detailing high-profile or otherwise newsworthy cases in which Steve had been involved. He was pleased to see these indications of Steve's success in his career, and no less pleased to see that apparently he was sufficiently proud of his son to keep such a record. 

Mark found himself wanting to know more about the exact nature of his relationship with his son. Obviously theirs was a close relationship – they lived, worked, and, if the pictures were to be believed, frequently socialized and vacationed together. And nothing spoke more tellingly of that closeness than his son's continued support and understanding throughout this current ordeal. What Mark didn't know, however, was his own role in this relationship. Did he give back to his son the same degree of love and respect he obviously received? Was he a supportive parent? Did he take his son for granted? Did Steve live with him because he felt obliged to or because he couldn't afford otherwise? Mark was surprised by the intensity with which he hoped that was not the case. The problem was, of course, that these weren't exactly questions he could ask Steve; he would have to feel his way, and try to infer the answers from his son's behavior and the tidbits of information he could piece together. So far, he thought, the signs were reasonably positive. While there were plenty of instances of grown children who continued to cater to and try to please unappreciative parents – and how come he knew that when he knew nothing about himself and his own life? – Steve certainly didn't seem like that type of person. Nor did the emotional atmosphere, so to speak, have that feel to it. He felt a wave of frustration at his inability to remember even this basic and important aspect of his life. Despite the knowledge that he obviously had so much to be grateful for, he couldn't help feeling depressed by the loss of all the memories and relationships that made up his life. He looked around at the abundance of memorabilia and wondered if he would ever reconnect with the memories they represented.

Returning from his run, Steve took the stairs up to the deck from the beach. Finding the deck empty, he quickly entered the house, hoping that his father hadn't become anxious at awakening alone. He was reassured when he saw Mark sitting at his desk, surrounded by papers and albums. 

"Hi, Dad," he said, coming into the study. 

"Hi, Steve," Mark replied, trying to shake off the despondency that was threatening to descend upon him. "How was your run?"

"Fine. I see you found the photo albums."

Mark smiled. "Along with a bunch of other things. I seem to be something of a collector."

Steve grinned back at him, perching on the edge of the desk.

"Wait 'til you see your office at the hospital," he warned. "It's getting so cluttered, there's barely room for you!"

Mark smiled back; only to have a sad, wistful look return to his face a moment later. Steve felt his heart drop. Jesse had warned them that mood swings weren't unexpected after the drugs Mark had been on, not to mention the experiences he'd been through, and Steve could certainly understand the tendency to feel depressed. But he felt so powerless to help his father; he couldn't even be sure when a chance remark or event would trigger a flashback to his experiences at the Exeter Institute or the onset of depression.

"What is it, Dad?" he asked gently, hoping that Mark would talk to him about what he was feeling, hoping that, somehow, he could find a way to help his father.

Mark shrugged slightly, shaking his head without speaking. He saw disappointment in Steve's eyes, and suddenly realized that shutting him out wasn't making it any easier on him. But Steve didn't say anything, obviously willing to let his father decide how much he was ready to share. 

"It's just … all these pictures and things I've collected," Mark said, struggling to explain the sense of emptiness that had suddenly engulfed him. "A lifetime of memories and treasured moments … all wiped away. I've lost them all."

The uncharacteristically forlorn note in his father's voice broke Steve's heart. He leaned forward and gripped Mark's shoulder.

"You'll get them back, Dad," he said, his voice gentle and reassuring. "It may take a little time, but we'll work on it together. And we'll make plenty of new memories to go along with them." 

Mark gazed at his son through slightly misty eyes, once again deeply touched and grateful for the love and understanding Steve displayed. 

"I just hope that when I had all my wits about me," he said somewhat gruffly, "I had the good sense to recognize the kind of son I have."

Steve smiled at him affectionately. 

"Don't worry," he replied lightly, "I always remind you if you look like you're in danger of forgetting!"

Mark smiled back at him and pulled himself together. _Really, _he thought, _I've got to stop coming apart like this. It only makes it harder on him._ He patted Steve's arm, saying, "Go on and get yourself cleaned up. I'm going to go see if I can remember how to make a cup of coffee." 

Steve got to his feet, but stood looking down at his father uncertainly for a moment, not sure if he should leave him alone. Mark saw the hesitation, and smiled reassuringly.

"Go on," he urged. "I'm pretty sure I can handle the coffee maker. And if I can't," he added with a touch of humor, "I'll just boil water for tea." He paused and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "At least – I assume we do have tea?" 

Steve smiled slightly. "Yeah, we have tea, Dad. In the canister on the counter near the stove."

"Good." Mark stood up. "Now you go ahead and get dressed, and by the time you get back, I'll have something ready. I'm not sure what, but something!"

Steve watched his father head for the kitchen, feeling slightly reassured by the re-emergence of Mark's sense of humor. He went back down to his apartment, this time showering and changing as quickly as possible. 


	13. Chapter 13

****

Chapter 13

When Steve came back upstairs, he found Mark outside on the deck. He paused at the door, the familiar sight of his father seated in his usual chair, drinking a cup of coffee and looking out over the beach eliciting mixed emotions. The relief he felt at having his dad back was marred by the knowledge that he wasn't really all 'back' yet; nothing would be the same for either of them until Mark regained his memory. He drew a breath and opened the door.

"So how'd you do with the coffee maker?" he asked as he walked out.

Mark looked over at him with a smile. "Not too badly, I think," he replied, holding up his cup. "It took me two tries, but I think I got it drinkable." He motioned to the other cup on the table. "I poured some for you if you want to try it."

Steve sat down, taking a sip from the proffered mug. "Tastes good to me," he approved. He surveyed his father appraisingly, and noted that he seemed to have recovered from the melancholy mood of a while ago. 

"Jesse and Amanda are planning on coming by for dinner if you're up to it," he told Mark, watching to see how this idea struck him. "They said they'd pick up the ribs on their way over." He was relieved to see his father accept this with apparent willingness.

"Sounds fine," Mark responded. "They've been very understanding about all this."

"They're practically family, Dad," Steve said. "They just want to do whatever they can to help."

"Tell me some more about them," Mark requested. "I gathered from the way you were all talking this morning, and from a lot of the pictures and things I've seen, that we must do a lot together."

Steve smiled. "We do," he confirmed. "It started with you all working at the hospital, of course, and then there're all the cases they've helped out on, as well as the fact that Jesse and I run Bob's together."

"Are they consultants for the police department too?" Mark asked.

Steve grinned. "Not exactly – although I think Jesse tends to forget that! Amanda's the assistant Medical Examiner, so she's reasonably legit, but Jesse – well, Jesse just somehow manages to keep himself involved!"

Mark was intrigued by the air of amused tolerance Steve displayed. "How did he start getting involved?" he asked.

"Well, that's mostly your fault," Steve said with a reminiscent grin. "When he came to Community General as an intern, he was fascinated by your involvement in solving cases, and he used to tag along as one of your 'helpers'." He looked over at his father, the smile in his eyes softening the lines the last week had carved in his face. "Actually, Amanda got started much the same way; she was doing her pathology residency at Community General and got involved as one of your unofficial 'investigators'. She turned out to be so good at forensic detection that she became the assistant medical examiner for the county. They've both been a big help over the years."

"So we help you solve your cases?" Mark was definitely finding this a fascinating concept; they certainly seemed to be quite an intertwined group.

"Well, not all of them," Steve demurred. "I do manage to solve some by myself!"

Looking at him sharply, Mark was relieved and pleased to see no hint of either sarcasm or resentment in this remark; rather, he saw only the affectionate amusement that seemed to surface so often. He reflected that this was obviously a man who was comfortable with both himself and his relationships with his father and friends. He felt a sudden thrill of pride in this son. 

Father and son spent what was left of the afternoon discussing several of the items that had intrigued Mark in his collections. Among other things, Steve explained that many of his childhood parties had been spent at Pony Land, and that Mark had come up with the idea of having one last birthday there before the place was sold off to make way for Community General's 'Wellness Center'. Mark felt a fleeting return of wistfulness as he thought of how he was missing all the intimate memories of his son's childhood, but this time he managed to avoid succumbing to a fit of depression. He was determined not to give way again – it only put more stress on Steve, for one thing. For another, he reminded himself that even if he never regained all those memories, he was obviously blessed in his son and his life here; when he compared it to the miserable existence he had foreseen for himself just a few days ago, he could only count himself immeasurably fortunate. 

They were still sitting amongst the accumulation of memorabilia when Jesse and Amanda arrived, bearing an extensive selection of items from BBQ Bob's. 

"We brought all your favorites," Jesse said, as he set down the large box they had used to carry all the food. Mark looked at the multitude of containers, an eyebrow raised in surprise.

"It looks like you've got enough there to feed an army," he laughed.

"Well, you need to eat," Amanda informed him. 

"Besides, Steve eats enough for a small army himself!" added Jesse.

"Yeah, like you don't?" retorted Steve. "Your appetite's bigger than you are!"

Still trading amicable insults, the two men headed for the kitchen to get plates, drinks, and utensils. Mark turned to look at Amanda.

"Now I know they're really good friends!" he observed with a smile.

Amanda smiled back at him. "Very good friends," she confirmed. She surveyed him appraisingly. "How are you doing?" she asked.

"Not too badly," Mark replied. He encountered her steady gaze, and found himself elaborating. "It's a bit frustrating."

"I can imagine it would be," she agreed sympathetically. "You know, Mark, we'll do anything we can to help." 

The warmth and sincerity in her voice were unmistakable; Mark had no doubt that Steve hadn't been exaggerating the closeness they shared with these friends. "Thank you," he replied, genuinely grateful for her caring.

Steve and Jesse came back in at that moment, bearing the necessary table settings and drinks. As they all sat around the table, Jesse looked over at Mark saying, "Oh, by the way, Alex sends his best wishes and said to tell you all the residents are looking forward to you coming back as soon as possible."

Mark saw Amanda grin at this remark, and looked back at Jesse curiously, sensing a story here.

"Is there something I should know about here?" he asked. 

"They're finding things pretty boring without you," Jesse replied, a gleam of humor in his eyes. "Rounds just aren't as interesting with Dr. Norton."

Mark glanced around the table and saw that even Steve was looking amused. "Why do I have the feeling that I'm about to find out something else about myself?"

"Well, you have a knack for making rounds a bit unpredictable," Jesse told him, grinning. "You've been known to engage in some non-traditional activities – like conducting a Native American ritual for the removal of evil spirits, engaging in sing-along sessions, removing candy bars from residents' ears… things like that."

"Along with roller skating through the hallways?" Mark asked, not quite sure how to take all this. Noticing the looks of surprise from Jesse and Amanda, he explained, "Steve told me about that." 

"You do tend to be a bit unconventional," Amanda confirmed with an affectionate smile.

Jesse nodded. "You give lectures to the med students in rap sometimes too," he added. "And then there was the time you faked an acute attack of appendicitis to see if the third years were ready to handle an emergency… Madison – the dean of the med school – was pretty annoyed about that one! And the time…" 

By the time Jesse had enthusiastically catalogued a list of Mark's more unorthodox activities, the older doctor wasn't quite sure if he should be entertained or dismayed. Noticing the expression on his face, Amanda put a hand out to Jesse.

"Hold it, Jesse; take it easy," she said with a small laugh. "I don't think Mark's ready for all that at once!"

"Do I ever actually practice medicine in between all this stuff?" Mark asked with a slightly crooked smile.

Realizing that the question was more than half in earnest, Jesse reined himself in. He looked back at his friend seriously.

"You're the best," he said simply. "It's just that you don't take yourself too seriously, and you have a talent for making things fun. But there's no better doctor on the staff and nobody in the hospital who doesn't know it."

Mark was touched by the obvious sincerity of this response. Glancing around, he saw affirmation and approval in Amanda's face as well. Reflecting once more how fortunate he was in having such friends, he decided he'd better change the conversation before he started getting emotional again. 

Once they had finished eating, the foursome relocated to the study where Mark and Steve had been going through Mark's collection of papers and albums. Discovering a scrapbook containing news clippings and related papers from cases that Mark had been involved in, Steve, Jesse, and Amanda found themselves telling Mark the details about the parts they'd all played in some of them. Mark listened and questioned, building up an ever clearer picture of this close-knit group that seemed to be so supportive of each other. 

As they leafed through the album, Mark stopped in surprise when he encountered a newspaper article reporting his death from a car explosion. He looked up at the others questioningly.

"I take it the rumors of my death were somewhat exaggerated," he observed dryly.

"That was the time Sam Rosser escaped from jail and came after you," Jesse explained. "He kept blowing things up trying to kill you, so you decided to fake your death to get him to stop long enough for us to find him before anyone else got hurt."

Mark cast a glance at Steve. "It sounds like a rather drastic approach," he observed. "Wasn't that kind of hard on the people who thought I was dead?"

Picking up the indirect reference to himself and their friends, Steve replied reassuringly, "We were in on it, Dad. It just gave us a chance to look for Rosser without having to worry about you or anyone else getting hurt before we found him." He glanced down at the newspaper clipping, remembering all too clearly his first sight of the inferno blazing in the wreckage of Mark's car and the wave of grief and despair that had engulfed him in those few interminable seconds before Mark had called to him from his hiding place. 

"Did it work?" Mark asked.

"Yeah, it did," said Jesse with a smile. 

"Does this sort of thing happen often?" Mark asked, thinking of Sanders' attempt at revenge as well.

The three friends exchanged glances, wondering how much they should say. By tacit consent, Jesse and Amanda left it to Steve to handle this one.

"There've been a couple of times that someone's tried for revenge, Dad," Steve told him, as matter-of-factly as he could. He didn't want to lie to his father, but he didn't want to trigger a bout of depression either; and this was one of those topics that he knew Mark tried not to dwell on even under normal circumstances. "It comes with the territory, I'm afraid. But it's not exactly a common occurrence." 

Mark glanced again at the newspaper article which mentioned two previous bombing attempts that had resulted in injuries to other hospital personnel. "It sounds like I could cause more harm than good," he observed soberly.

Again the three others exchanged looks of concern. This time it was Amanda who responded first.

"Mark, you've solved over a hundred cases; you've not only brought murderers to justice, you've saved the lives of dozens of people who would have been killed by some of the people you've gotten off the streets." 

"Not to mention the times you've saved one of us!" added Jesse. That got Mark's attention. "You've saved my neck a number of times," Jesse told him. "You kept me from being arrested for murder when I got set up by an obsessive patient; you even saved my life when my girlfriend and I stumbled into an illegal treasure salvaging operation that involved an entire town!"

"And you found out who killed my sorority sister when someone murdered her in my apartment," Amanda added. "The cop who was investigating was sure I had done it." She held his gaze, her own warm and affectionate. "You're not endangering people, Mark. You do what you do because you're helping people – because you care."

"And you're very good at it!" added Jesse. That drew a smile from the others, and the talk moved on to other, more pleasant topics, as they relocated to the deck to enjoy the mild evening. 


	14. Chapter 14

****

Chapter 14

Later that evening, Mark found himself alone on the deck as the others cleared up, having lost the argument that he was perfectly capable of helping. He was standing at the railing, watching the moonlight reflected on the water, when Amanda came out to join him. She stood silently in the shadows for a moment, watching this man who had been one of her dearest friends for so long. She reflected that Mark had always been a man who was very comfortable with who and what he was – never pretending or changing to conform to other people's expectations. It was so hard to see him struggling to find his place in the midst of his own life and friends. She saw him turn now to look back into house, and noticed how his eyes followed Steve, a slightly troubled look on his face. She stepped out into the moonlight to stand beside him.

"Mark?" 

He glanced at her, startled, not having realized she was there.

"Amanda! I'm sorry; I didn't see you come out," he apologized.

"Is there something in particular bothering you?" she asked quietly. "Something about Steve?"

Mark focussed his attention on Amanda, surprised by how quickly she had picked up on both his distraction and its cause. He reflected that it might, in fact, be helpful to talk to this person who was obviously such a close friend of both his and Steve's. 

"I was just thinking of the stress all this is putting on Steve," he said, trying to sound casual, but with a trace of his concern showing in his voice. "He's trying too hard to carry me through this." 

"Mark, you've just been through a horrendous ordeal," Amanda responded. "It's going to take a little while before you're back to normal; it's only natural that Steve is going to want to do as much as he can to help you." She kept her eyes on her friend, sensing that there was more behind this than appeared on the surface. "After all, if it were the other way around, you'd be doing the same for him." She saw Mark's face turn to hers at that, an unspoken question in his eyes, and, with a sudden flash of insight, realized what it was that was bothering him.

"Mark, the reason this is so hard on Steve – and there's no use pretending it isn't," she admitted, "is because you two are so close. You have an incredible relationship – you understand and support each other. It's not just him looking after you, you know." She looked him straight in the eyes, a soft smile in her own. "There's a basic fact you don't seem to have grasped yet," she told him. "The reason we're all here for you is because you're always there for us. And that holds especially true for Steve. You're there for him when he needs you, Mark – always; you don't need to worry about that. Nobody's ever been in any doubt about that – least of all Steve."

The quiet certainty in Amanda's voice carried complete conviction, providing the reassurance that Mark so needed. It was important to him to know that the love and support Steve was providing flowed both ways, that he wasn't always on the receiving end. He looked back at her with a slight, grateful smile. "Thanks," he said quietly. 

Amanda smiled at him with deep affection, and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. No more was said, as Steve and Jesse returned from the kitchen, and the two friends prepared to leave. 

After Jesse and Amanda had gone, Steve looked closely at his father, observing the obvious signs of fatigue that lent an uncharacteristic air of frailty to the older man. It would take a little time, he knew, before Mark would completely regain his usual robust health and energy; a week-long illness saps anyone's strength and energy, and for a man of his father's age to have undergone what he had for a week, it would take more than a day or two to recover from the debilitating effects. 

"Why don't you get some sleep, Dad?" he suggested, in what he hoped was a casual tone. "Everything's all cleaned up; I'll be turning in in a bit myself." He saw a gleam of humor in the blue eyes that suddenly seemed remarkably alert.

"Do I look that bad?" Mark asked.

Surprised, Steve realized that he hadn't deceived his father at all; Mark had noticed the scrutiny and had seen the concern his son had hoped to hide. Ruefully, Steve reflected that here was one more proof that his father's loss of memory wasn't indicative of a corresponding loss of his powers of observation. "No, but you do need to catch up on your rest," Steve responded, smiling.

Mark nodded in acknowledgement of this, but retorted, "You know, I could say the same of you. I know I can't claim to be sure of much, but I suspect that you don't always look this tired yourself!"

"Don't worry, Dad," Steve replied. "I'm planning on going to sleep soon too. I'm just going to watch some TV first to unwind a bit." He watched as his father went off to his room, then kicked off his shoes, grabbed a pillow and throw from the couch, and settled into Mark's recliner. He hadn't lied, he reflected. He was planning on sleeping; he just wasn't planning on doing it in his apartment. He remembered the sudden awakenings and alarms his father had experienced the previous night; his presence then had seemed to provide reassurance. Mark certainly seemed to be much more stable today, but he was still going through enormous emotional changes and adjustments, and Steve planned on being nearby in case he was needed.


	15. Chapter 15

****

Chapter 15

Mark woke suddenly from an uneasy sleep in which a confusing jumble of people and events paraded through his dreams. He sat up, blinking around at the dark room, once again feeling dazed and disoriented. He reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, accidentally bumping his arm against the carafe of water he kept on the nightstand. In moving abruptly to try to save the carafe from tipping over, he banged into the lamp, sending it crashing to the floor, where it smashed, scattering pieces of glass and ceramic across the room. With a sigh of frustration, he carefully slid into his slippers and headed to the bathroom to find a wastebasket to collect the shards of glass.

Down in the den, Steve had fallen asleep in the recliner when the sound of the crash woke him. Instantly concerned, he headed for Mark's room. He knocked briefly on the door before opening it, calling out to his father as he entered.

"Dad?" He fumbled for the light switch beside the door, searching the darkness for his father, as he stepped into the room.

Mark heard Steve's voice and poked his head back out from the bathroom, calling quickly: "Steve? Watch out for the …" There was a sharp exclamation of pain, as Steve, whose attention was focussed on his father, stepped down hard on one of the pieces of glass littering the floor. "…glass." Mark came back into the room to see his son holding onto the footboard of the bed with one hand, a bleeding foot in the other.

"Here, sit down and let me take a look at that," Mark said with quick concern, stepping carefully across the floor to his son. Steve allowed himself to be steered onto the edge of the bed, his alarm slightly allayed, but his attention still on his father.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "What happened?"

"I just knocked the lamp over when I was trying to turn it on," Mark replied, checking out the bottom of Steve's foot. A largish shard was imbedded in the sole. "Stay here," he instructed. "I'll get the first aid kit." He disappeared back into the bathroom, reappearing a moment later, first aid kit in hand. He knelt next to the bed, fishing out a small forceps from the medical kit. "You know," he scolded mildly as he carefully removed the sliver of glass and rinsed the cut with peroxide, "this is why your mother always told you not to run around the house at night without your slippers."

Steve smiled slightly, and was about to respond with a light remark, when the significance of what Mark had just said suddenly hit. Hesitating to believe the implications of what he had heard, he looked sharply at his father. 

"Dad…" His voice was low and carefully calm. "How did you know where the first aid kit was?"

Without looking up from his task of bandaging Steve's foot, Mark replied with a touch of exasperation, "Because it was right where it was supposed to be – in the cabinet I've kept it in for the last 10 ye…" His voice broke off abruptly, and he looked up, eyes wide with shock. Silently, almost afraid to breathe, Steve watched as his father looked slowly around the room, his face wearing a stunned expression. For Mark, it was as if someone had just opened a wall of windows illuminating what had been a dark emptiness in his mind to reveal a wealth of form, color, and image. The rest of his life seemed to click into place with the events of the previous week, producing a dizzying sensation of a sudden, rapid shifting of focus. 

"How much do you remember?" Steve asked softly, his hopes building as he watched, despite his attempts to control them. 

"A lot…" Mark's voice was shaky and somewhat tentative as he struggled to process the knowledge and awareness that seemed to suddenly well up in him. "Maybe all of it…" He looked back at his son. "Steve." The single word was an acknowledgement, a full recognition of this man who was the most important person in his life. "Dear God…," he said shakily, as a lifetime of memories, shared experiences, and love flooded back into his consciousness. His hand reached out almost without conscious volition to grip the knee in front of him. "…Steve."

Steve gazed into those blue eyes, seeing the emotional turmoil there, and seeing too, finally, the recognition and love he had been waiting for. His own eyes misty, he leaned forward to grip his father's shoulder, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Welcome back, Dad."

The moment held for a timeless instant, before Mark broke the contact and drew a deep breath, giving himself a brisk mental shake. He looked down at the roll of adhesive tape he still held in his hand and the glass that littered the floor around him.

"I'd better clean up this mess," he said, a hint of shakiness remaining in his voice.

"I'll give you a hand," volunteered Steve. But Mark put a restraining hand out. 

"Don't move until you've got something on your feet," he ordered. "I'll get you my other pair of slippers."

Steve sat back as his father disappeared into his closet, quickly reappearing with the slippers. He reflected that it was amazing how much satisfaction he could derive from the simple fact that his father knew that he had an extra pair of slippers and knew where to find them. He glanced up from donning the footwear to see Mark watching him with a smile in his eyes, and knew that he was sharing the same thought. 

Together, father and son cleaned up the remains of the lamp. Both reluctant to let go of their newly rediscovered connectedness, they repaired to the kitchen for a midnight snack. A deep sense of contentment and relief filled them as they sat at the table, as they had so many nights in the past – a past they once again shared. There were few words at first, as they allowed the volatile emotions to settle. They had never needed words to communicate anyway.

Mark was the first to speak of the events of the past week.

"You know, I've had patients who had lost part or all of their memories; now I know how they must have felt."

Steve scrutinized his father's face, and was relieved to see no signs of depression. "It must be a horrible experience," he responded.

Mark nodded. "Not much fun," he admitted. He looked his son straight in the eyes. "Not much fun for you either," he said.

"No," admitted Steve in return. He gazed back at his father seriously. "But at least I didn't spend the week in that hell Sanders created for you." He saw Mark's eyes cloud momentarily as he mentally reviewed his experiences at Exeter. But they were clear and level a moment later.

"I doubt it was a particularly enjoyable week for you either," Mark commented dryly. With his memory returned, he had a very good idea of the variety of hell his son must have experienced during his disappearance. "I think we can safely say that it was rotten for both of us."

Steve smiled in acknowledgement of that statement, then sobered. "Do you remember what happened to you, Dad?" he asked.

Mark was silent for a moment, considering. "No," he replied. "I'm not even sure exactly what the last thing I remember is. I'm still getting some vague images of events at the hospital that seem to be pretty mixed up. I think it's going to take some time before it all settles down to a coherent timeline. But I don't seem to remember anything about an accident or injury of any kind." Abandoning, for the moment, his attempt to recall the recent past, he refocused his attention on the present. 

"But at least I remember the most important things," he declared, an affectionate smile in his eyes as he looked at his son. Blue eyes met blue in a wordless exchange that nevertheless spoke volumes to both.

"It's good to have you back, Dad," Steve said softly.

"Thank you, son," Mark replied, in the familiar, emotion-deepened voice. He knew that, as usual, Steve would understand all that simple phrase was meant to cover. "It's good to be home."


	16. Epilogue

****

Epilogue

Amanda walked out onto the deck of the beach house, carrying a tray containing a carafe of coffee and accompaniments. She set the tray down on the table and moved to the railing, looking down at the beach below where Mark and Jesse were building sandcastles with CJ and Dion. It was three days after Mark had regained his memory, and he had invited the gang over for a celebratory dinner, after which the two boys had corralled Mark and Jesse to play with them while Steve and Amanda set up for coffee. As she watched her friends and sons with amused affection, she heard Steve come out behind her, carrying the rest of the coffee things.

Hearing the laughter from below, Steve joined Amanda at the railing and peered down. He stood watching for a moment, a faint smile on his face, as Mark made small shells disappear and reappear from various points 'inside' the sandcastle.

"I was afraid the boys might be too much for him this soon," Amanda said with a smile, "but he seems to be enjoying it as much as they are."

"It works out well," Steve responded, his eyes still on the scene below. "It's good for him to have family around today."

Something in his voice caught Amanda's attention. "How'd it go this afternoon?" she asked quietly. 

Steve continued to gaze out at the beach, his mind harking back to the day's events. Once he had regained his memory, Mark had been determined to do whatever he could to see that the conditions at the Exeter Institute were corrected. Steve had wanted his father to leave it to him and Jesse to initiate a Board of Health inquiry, but Mark had declared that he was in the best position to know the exact nature of the conditions as well as which of the staff needed to be replaced. The Board was going to have to talk to him anyway, he pointed out. Steve had been unable to argue with that, but he hadn't been very happy with his father's decision to visit the Exeter Institute himself to speak directly to the chief administrator there. He had been even less happy when Mark had refused to let his son accompany him to the Institute. Steve had reluctantly accepted his father's desire to do this on his own, but he had insisted on driving Mark there and bringing him home. Mark had emerged from his visit that afternoon rather quiet, but without any of the signs of distress or depression that his son had feared.

"Okay, I guess," Steve replied in answer to Amanda's question. "I gather he convinced them to immediately suspend some of the worst staff members while the investigation is going on."

Amanda thought back to what Jesse had told her about Mark's experiences. "Did he tell you who…?" she asked hesitantly.

"No." Steve's response was short, but level. He looked over at her a moment later, a wry twist to his mouth. "I think he's afraid I might not handle the situation objectively."

Amanda had to smile at that. "And would you?" she asked.

"Probably not," Steve admitted. "But it wouldn't help him any if I got suspended for assault, so I'll probably manage to control myself somehow when it finally all comes out."

Amanda nodded, reflecting with satisfaction that both Sloans seemed to be getting back to normal. Her attention was reclaimed by the increasingly noisy scene on the beach, where CJ and Dion had tackled Jesse and were trying to bury him in the sand before he could get up. Deciding it was time to intervene, Amanda announced that coffee was served, and the boys reluctantly surrendered their victim.

Mark and Jesse rejoined the other two adults on the deck, shaking sand off themselves as they climbed the stairs.

"Honestly, I'm not sure which of you four is the biggest kid," Amanda scolded affectionately, as she helped Mark brush off the back of his sweater. He grinned at her unrepentantly, the familiar gleam of mischief in his eyes. 

"That's what old age is for: enjoying your second childhood," he responded.

"You're not that old," protested Amanda with a smile.

"Besides," added Steve dryly, "don't you have to have outgrown your first childhood before you can have a second one?"

Laughing, they moved to the table to have their coffee – enjoying this first relaxed gathering with their foursome finally completely intact. As the usual banter was traded back and forth, Mark savored the sense of belonging and completeness that he had finally regained. Amanda caught his eye, and he smiled at her.

"It's good to have life back to normal," he said contentedly. 

"It's good to see you back to normal," she responded, happy to see him relaxed and comfortable with himself once more. 

"I've always wondered what it must be like having total amnesia," Jesse commented. 

"It's got its interesting side," Mark mused contemplatively. "You get to take a look at your life from the outside, so to speak. It gives you an interesting perspective."

"So how does it look to be Mark Sloan?" Jesse quipped.

Mark looked around with deep affection at these people who were such an integral part of his life, and whose warmth and support had done so much to ease his return to that life.

"To borrow a phrase," he said with a smile, "it's a wonderful life!"


End file.
